Hall of Flame: A Salute to My Favorite Porn Stars

My favorite porn stars are lodged, like nagging and familiar pop songs, in my consciousness; there are adult film scenes that remain ardently stuck in my mental craw, along with the performers that brought them to life through their art and dedication. All lists of favorites are deliciously subjective. Of course, my identification is with the women, and my enjoyment has always been synchronous with theirs; their unique sense of authority, their effortless performer’s command of their audience. We know that behind the scenes they were forced to stop and start at awkward junctures, pose for smutty stills while engorged, and endure all of the professional exertions required to make the pleasure onscreen appear blithe and effortless.

I salute you!

In no particular order, I give tribute to these artistes of the boudoir, these poets of the flesh:

 

Dial "N" for "Natural, Edenic Fiend of the Sheets"

Nikki Dial: She looked like Sandra bullock in “The ‘Net,” and appeared vampy in photographs; on the set, in flagrante delicto, she appeared unaffected, less an actress than an enthusiast, deep in carnal oblivion and concentration, her petite natural proportions confirming the existence of a higher power. Her dialogue was delivered sweetly and innocently, not a faux naïveté, but a broadcast from some strange, Edenic state. In “Deep Inside Nikki Dial,” she revealed in an interview that she preferred doggy style, “because the dick hits you in the right way.” No qualifications, just a childlike surrender to biology and its wonders.

 

Nina Hartley: Gentlewoman, Scholar, Devourer of Manflesh

Nina Hartley: Scholar, matron, veteran, expert, connoisseur, heroine, she radiated integrity. She had the bearing of a Wellesley professor or a literary aunt with a naughty streak, her mind serving as the most powerful sex organ of all, leading her magnificent ass into spirited encounter after encounter, demonstrating pure joy in labor.  In “Naked Hollywood,” she waxes philosophical about Gore Vidal, devours two co-stars, and walks away unbowed.  Author, swinger, icon, connoisseur of both leather dykes and everymen, she deserves a monument cast in quivering latex.

 

Mercedez: Princesa Azteca

Mercedez: She always seemed haughty, imperious, an Aztec princess who dained to bonk her fortunate subjects. It was well earned; in her pre-porn days, she appeared on the Jenny Jones show in a makeover episode called from “Geek to Chic,” and burst from a chrysalis of bespectacled awkwardness to emerge as a sex deity. Her voice was high, sweet, an ethereal effusion; her ripe curves radiated unalloyed pleasure, a Toltec invasion of unashamed smuttiness. In one scene, she actually did f*** in a pearl-colored Mercedes 5-series, backed by a rampart of shimmering white; was this a broadcast from the Empyrean?

carreraAsia Carrera: Named after once-hot starlet Tia Carerre, Ms. Carrera has deservedly sailed to greater heights of stardom. In a long career, she acted with intelligence and charisma, and arrived in countless films like a capricious but always welcome friend whose appearance at the party is uncertain until the last moment. She built a thoughtful Web presence, commenting on the industry with shamelessness and introspection, all expected from an accomplished concert pianist and Rutgers scholarship recipient.

siffrediRocco Siffredi: The only cocksman who performs in French art house films, he had an undeniable aura of the faintly menacing, and his technique was probably a closer to the pile driver than most tender moments demanded, but there was an undeniable reaction from his costars, who seemed to thrill to his professional over-commitment. I remember envying the great Hyapatia Lee as he ferociously nailed her in some grainy, forgotten Vivid feature; she went on to fake her own death but he is very much among us, starring in Catherine Breillat films, producing smut, and expanding a legacy of gratification. He occasionally produces fan-f*** videos. Will my application be lost in the voluminous mailbags full of perfumed letters?

sterlingNici Sterling: British, with a nom de guerre to match; we were to believe that she was the product of Mayfair and fox hunts, of country houses, and topiary hedgerows, not the fleshy torrent of Brit pop culture: the Sun, the Sunday Sport, football and flat lager. The illusion worked; she drove into our hearts and loins like a Bentley Arnage and then vanished, as fleeting and ineffable as Charles Ryder’s memories in “Brideshead Revisited.”

XO

Syl

sylvialowry1 (at) gmail.com

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© 2013 Sylvia Lowry, All Rights Reserved

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