“I’ve got Nina Hartley in the van. I’m taking her to the erotic festival. Do you want to meet her?” our friend said over the phone.
Did we want to meet Nina Hartley? Is a bear Catholic? Does the Pope shit in the woods? Of COURSE we wanted to meet Nina Hartley!
Nina Hartley had made a couple of memorable appearances in my life before that.
Once, when I was living in Hollywood, I saw her at the gym. She was doing lateral pulls at the resistance machine and wore a smart spandex shorts-and-sports-bra combo over her smokin’, rock-hard bod. “Damn, I think that’s Nina Hartley,” I thought.
As I checked up on her out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that the number of men in the area where she was working had multiplied. Every single one of them had ceased activity. They milled about, staring aimlessly off into space or fiddling with their shoelaces… all the while sneaking looks at Nina, whose concentration remained unbroken as she huffed and puffed at the stack of weights. “She must be so used to ruining the workout routines of countless Mr. Universes,” I thought. If I were in that situation, I would never be able to handle the stares. But Nina remained seemingly oblivious, cool as a cucumber.
Later, when I was still living in L.A., my brother came from South Carolina to visit me. Whenever he came to visit, we always had amazing celebrity sightings that never, ever occurred when I was alone. He had already pointed out Steve Martin at the table behind us in a café, and Drew Barrymore and her boyfriend sitting next to us on a cliff in Griffith Park. I thought he’d enjoy seeing the Hustler store on Sunset Boulevard. When we got there, we were very excited to see Ron Jeremy holding court with a group of young, surgically-enhanced blondes in the terrace café.
My brother and I separated to browse the store by ourselves. (Call me crazy, but browsing the Hustler store with my brother just seemed a liiiitle icky to me.) When we met up later, we showed each other what we’d picked out. He had about four DVDs with generic-looking porn stars on the cover. “What made you choose those?” I asked him. “Do you like the actresses?”
“Hell no,” he said. “I went to the bargain bin. Figured four pornos are better than one.” My purchases were a bit more romantic: two Nina Hartley instructional videos on oral sex. “Ha ha, girl stuff,” my brother said.
And now here she was, in Barcelona, to participate in the live sex show at the Erotic Festival. Cesar and I went downstairs to meet the van. We slid the door open and there was the legendary Ms. Hartley, wearing an elegant, tight-fitting dress and high heels. “Hi, I’m Nina,” she said cordially and held her hand out.
Unlike many women I’ve met who made a living from being sexy — whether they be strippers, models, or “regular” actresses — there was nothing artificial or contrived about her. There was a down-to-earth, polite, responsible, June Cleaver quality about Nina, and I liked her instantly.
Cesar chose to sit in the front, so I sat alone with Nina in the back of the van. I was a little nervous. What the hell would I talk about with a famous porn star whom I’d just met? I had never been in such a situation. The closest I’d come was when my friend John Skipp introduced me to his ex-wife, Kelly Nichols, in the home they shared with their daughters in the San Fernando Valley.
Kelly — or Marianne, as we called her — was wearing baggy denim overalls and was sprawled out on the floor like a rag doll, watching Star Trek with her brother, who looked very much like her. Laying on the carpet, the two of them looked like a couple of ten-year-olds. She shot me a big smile and waved. “Hi, Rachel!” and went back to her Star Trek marathon. “Marianne and her brother are huge Star Trek nerds,” Skipp whispered to me. I realized this was so when they started to recite the dialog just ahead of the actors.
But meeting a retired porn star in her civilian digs is not the same as being shut in the back of a van with an active porn legend who happens to be en route to a session of live, open-air sucking and fucking. However, my nervousness quickly dissipated when we began chatting. Realizing that I was from the U.S., she asked the question I’m always asked by my visiting countrymen: what the hell was I was doing in Barcelona? Before I knew it, I’d told her my life story. “Ohh, that’s sooo romantic! Good for you!” she said. Her crystal-blue eyes lit up with genuine enthusiasm.
I never had a sister, but right then and there I decided that, if I did, I would like her to be like Nina Hartley.
We left her at the festival but agreed to meet up the next day, since she had to do an interview with Cesar for the magazine. The following day, we picked her up at her hotel, the one hovering over the ugly and inhospitable Sants station. She wore very little makeup and looked rather tired and irritated. “The people in the room next to mine were partying all night and it was impossible for me to sleep. Normally when I can’t sleep I just jerk off, but the noise was so loud that it didn’t work. Ugh, I can’t stand inconsiderate people.” It struck me how nonchalantly she spoke of doing what everyone does when they can’t fall asleep: jerking off. I mean, I know she’s a porn star, but still! It was funny to meet someone who talked so frankly and naturally about such things.
We went to the city center of Barcelona, parked the van and walked around the Barri Gotic, conversing all the way. Like many artists who visit the city, she was floored by its beauty and full of curiosity of the city. As we walked down the crowded Plaza del Angel, a young woman with a bubble-shaped butt walked in front of us. Nina, who was talking, cut herself off in mid-sentence and said “Whoo, nice ass!” Was this lady obsessed with sex? I didn’t get that feeling at all. Rather, it seemed she just didn’t repress her impulses quite as much as others.
We went to the little Dali Museum in the Barri Gotic and spent some time looking at the paintings and sketches. I told Nina about Dali’s famous obsession with penises and erections, and his impotence problems. I told her how he had bought a castle for Gala to entertain her lovers privately. I spoke of these things in a kind of sniggering way, as if they were comical. But Nina didn’t laugh. Her face took on a pained look and she said, “That is so sad. For a man not to be able to get an erection, not to be able to sexually fulfill himself. So terribly, terribly sad. And how generous of him to get a castle for his lady so she could enjoy herself too!” I felt kind of like an asshole.
She asked me about what I do here, so I told her I do comedy and the Anti-Karaoke show. I explained how beautiful the show can be, because it gives people the chance to be recognized and appreciated for themselves, in the format of a rock show. “That reminds me of swinging,” she said.
Anti-Karaoke? Like swinging?
“Come again?” I asked.
“When I was 18 and I first started going to swinger’s clubs, I used to love to have sex with older, less attractive men just to see the look of happiness on their faces. Happiness that someone was actually seeing them. I imagine that’s what your show probably does for people too.”
I had never thought of Anti-Karaoke in that way, but yes, she was right. What they accomplished in terms of personal fulfillment were not that different.
Later she said, “I’ve been trying to think of who you remind me of, and now I’ve got it. Do you know Jasmin St. Clair? She’s like a sister to me. You kind of remind me of her.” I was happy that the feeling was mutual. Then I looked up Jasmin St. Clair on the web. She is a dark-skinned, dark-haired porn actress who was famous for gang-bang scenes, then went on to wrestling. For a long time, I wondered what about me reminded Nina of her. It must have been the wrestling.
She gave Cesar and I an autographed copy of her book, Nina Hartley’s Guide to Total Sex. Even while walking through the winding streets of the Barri Gotic, she couldn’t help dispensing tidbits of wisdom. “Many couples’ sexual problems come from the fact that the woman doesn’t realize that, if she’s tired or not in the mood, all it takes is a little hand job to make him happy. A couple of minutes and you’re done. It’s as simple as that,” she said, as if she were sharing a recipe.
Her Guide to Total Sex continued with the practical advice. I had never read a book as detailed and frank about sex, and, naturally, it provoked many thoughts. As an American –and especially as an American woman – many of our psychological problems, identity problems, phobias and frustrations are sex-based. I suspect it’s true of other cultures as well, though the specifics may be different.
I have never met anyone like Nina Hartley. We’ve remained in contact since then, and that was how I learned about her new venture, “SexWise”, an internet-based sex educational program. I’ve visited the sites (www.sexwise.me andwww.sexwise.tv) and I think they’re revolutionary in the straightforward and comprehensive way they deal with all things sexual and psychological.
Whether or not you consider yourself to have sex problems — but come on, you probably do — I highly recommend checking them out.
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