I opted out of attending my high school prom in part because my date got hopelessly lost on the way and in part because the whole thing just seemed stupid. There I was wearing a sheer black antique lace dress over an ink black taffeta sheath with a plunging neckline, knowing fully well that every other girl would be wearing a fluffy pastel confection ideal for the top of a wedding cake or the inside of a ballerina music box. I was not like the other girls and I thanked my lucky stars on a daily basis.Today I sit in judgment of the on-camera sexual performances of hyper female, impossibly thin young women whose bodies often seem to resemble nothing seen in nature. Like Caesar’s thumb at a gladiatorial combat, my fast-forward finger can determine the fate of porn hopefuls who dream of praise and stardom. A more spiteful woman might see this as an opportunity to get back at the rally girls and prom queens whose sometimes surreal beauty concepts deviled me as a youth. Instead, I find myself possessing a strange affection for these girls and the men who fuck them for a living, as well as the fantasy fueled industry that keeps churning out video fare that delights and infuriates masturbators the world over.

There is something so deliciously non-pastel about porn, no matter how pink and flouncy the setting or the star. There is something so profoundly otherworldly and yet so absolutely raw and real about the art form and the subject matter. For these reasons and so many more, I find myself inexorably drawn to its yearly celebration of all that is legally carnal on film or video: the AVN Awards.

This annual common law marriage between the lustful outlaw and the poised princess is such a roller coaster of fun to watch and be a part of that it’s almost a guilty pleasure to call it work. The sheer extreme theater of it all is a strangely soothing balm for my porn bloodied eyes. Oh, the humanity. The glorious humanity of it all.

The moment you descend the escalator from the Venetian’s Canal Shoppes into its casino, you know something is happening. The frenzy is somehow brighter and tighter and louder and more urgent. Where there is usually slot machine bustle there are clumps of onlookers and the fetal beginnings of waiting crowds. The closer that you get to the fine restaurants and the V Bar, the more absolute the line, the wall of camera toting porn fan paparazzi becomes. Men, women, rude, well-mannered, attractive, piteous; they wait on the other side of the velvet rope craning their heads, looking for someone they recognize with their clothes on and wondering who the rest of us are.

Once through the gauntlet of camera clad fandom, those hoping to view the awards must pass through one of a series of metal detectors. Beyond those, the promised land awaits. Free of the narrow passageway through the hall, porn stars, directors, producers, crew, dates, fans with tickets, and god knows who else, mill about snapping photos, posing provocatively, procuring and injecting beverages, and generally looking rather glamorous and delightful. The women sparkled this year, with rhinestones being quite the popular favorite, especially in hair combs and clips. Shawl tops of glittering stones, shoulder straps, chokers, earrings, sequins, shimmering metallics, trailing beads – and nary a one complimenting a pastel confection, although many looked sprayed on like a colorful, textured, and hallucination-inducing icing. I’m sorry. When Britney Spears or Paris Hilton dresses like this, they just look like they’re trying to prove something. The porn vixens have nothing to prove. Their bodies and their confidence in possessing them tells everything that you need to know.

Except, of course, that there’s always more to know. But for the night, image was officially acknowledged as gosh darn close to everything if not actually all that and a bag of chips.

There was no buffet this year, perhaps in order to make room for more attendees. Instead, each table had several plates of fancy appetizers set upon it for idle noshing. The bartenders, of course, stood ever vigilant and ever busy as the beautiful people circled closer and closer to their tables, connecting and reconnecting with one another, embracing, flirting, flattering, laughing, and generally giving every impression of having a perfectly lovely time. Multiple award winning performer Mr. Marcus grabbed my shoulders and apologized for missing my parties, Skye Blue laughed close to the face of her lovely dinner companion, Kick Ass Pictures webmaster Vic D. wore my lipstick on his face while ex-contract girl Mary Carey showed off her new, bustier, and higher gloss look, and ever smiling and soon-to-be “Best Actor – Video” winner Evan Stone swept through the crowd, white pirate-style coat open and muscled chest exposed. It was a sea of sexy stories capable of competing with whatever the evening’s organizers might have planned as official entertainment.

Once the lights dimmed and those assembled had settled into their seats, multiple wide screens broadcast images like moving picture porno mirrors throughout the ballroom, so that no matter how far from the stage one sat, one was never far from the bigger-than-life image of a beloved icon of desire. Alas, for nearly the first half of the awards program, the audio was not able to compete with the video, leaving audience members straining to hear what hosts, award winners, and even Hall of Fame Founders Award recipient Larry Flynt had to say. What looked like often hilarious spoofs of mainstream films, including Brokeback Mountain, were likewise muffled. Fortunately, comedian and co-host Greg Fitzsimmons had generally better luck during his consistently entertaining monologue.
As the awards began to pour in pretty much as expected, the audience began to explore the ballroom floor more freely, socializing a bit, visiting the hallway and restroom, and returning to have their suspicions confirmed. Pirates, one of the most expensive and unquestionably most technically and aesthetically amazing pornographic videos to date, from Digital Playground/Adam & Eve, was raking in the statues. On the film side, the impressive remake of The Devil in Miss Jones from Vivid Entertainment was doing likewise, although at a slightly more modest rate. I hadn’t been knocked out by most of the sex in Pirates, but agree that it’s amazing eye candy that proves porn can be more than creepy guys casting shadows while videotaping nervous 19-year-olds in cheap motel rooms. Although I consider the Georgina Spelvin original to be a seminal work of explicit video art, there’s no question that The New Devil in Miss Jones is an homage worthy of the original. Savanna Samson and Jenna Jameson both did fine work.
As the evening progressed and the PA began to work better, my platform boot heels got to wandering and I saw the sights from a number of locations. I scribbled notes and grimaced at the bad sound while sitting across the table from my favorite bad boy director, Black Mirror’s boundary-pushing and award-winning pro-am brainiac Joe Gallant, as he swapped observations with members of his crew and Screw magazine editor/friend Kenny Law. ASACP’s Joan Irvine fluffed my flagging spirits as an ebullient Audrey Hollander, resplendent in white and rhinestones, accepted another award for her living room mantle. I’m not really sure what was happening on stage while my homie Tuesday, now a charming representative for Homegrown Video, wiggled happily on my vinyl clad lap because, frankly, I found her far more absorbing. I think the federal government’s least favorite director, Extreme Associate’s Rob Black, was apologizing to AVN for having been something of an ass prior to his prodigal son return to the fold after having become an uncomfortable symbol of the Free Speech movement.

When all is said and done, for me the evening was about seeing some of my favorite performers, directors, and videos take home trophies while seeing others comfort themselves with the fact they’d been nominated. It was about watching the façade of fame rise and fall as moments and emotions came and went. It was about knowing that, peppered among the big name no-surprises, there were happy smiles from genuinely amazed winners, like Elizabeth Starr for her Faster Pussycat! Fuck! Fuck! big bust action comedy. It was about feeling a sense of secret prom night vindication at hearing that Chunky Housecall Nurses 2 brought home the “Best Specialty Release – Other” trophy. It was about riding the wave of insecurity and euphoria that comes from being surrounded by the stuff that wet dreams are made of and finding out that they like me, they really like me – and that I like them, I really like them.

I opted out of attending my high school prom, but even as jaded and bitter as I sometimes feel, I don’t think I’ll opt out of the AVN Awards for quite a while. I’m not like the other girls, and I thank my lucky stars on a daily basis that I get to work in a crazy, raunchy, glamorous, wonderful, fucked-up world where it’s ok that not everybody is a porn star, because somebody has to keep their finger poised over the fast-forward button.