Tory Lane

Tory Lane

Originally uploaded by Thomas Roche

An hour after a short interview I did with pornographer Tory Lane at January’s Adult Entertainment Expo in Las Vegas, I crashed and burned. Too much bourbon, too little sleep, too many aerialists had taken the Devil’s due out of my ass. I limped back to my hotel room, crashed hard into my Super8 bed, and had a dream about Lane. No, no, not that kind of dream, this kind of dream.

She and I got assigned by the shadowy big-business Mafia figure sponsoring her appearance at AEE to sign at some crappy store in bumfuck North Las Vegas. They flew us there by helicopter from the roof of the Venetian and landed us in a parking lot of the giant porno megaplex, where the publicity had been mishandled, the fans didn’t know she was there, and nobody showed up.

Pissed, Lane made the helicopter pilot take us to the mob boss’s house so she could chew him a new asshole, and when we arrived he was schooling his kids in the finer points of Daddy’s business — the distribution of auto parts (they didn’t know he was in porn).

Lane chewed the mob boss out despite the presence of his kids; the mob boss liked her brassy balls so much he had his thugs impound both of us and made us spend the night together in an upstairs bedroom while he decided what to do with us.

Lane, quickly in the altogether, laughed at my tighty-whities as I undressed. In real life, I don’t wear tighty whities, but in the dream some assclown had swapped out my boxers for briefs — pranked by the Super8 housekeeping staff, maybe? The dream ended just as Tory was about to good-naturedly boink me crosseyed just to kill time until the mob boss decided whether or not to whack us.

It was weird.

Tory Lane

Originally uploaded by Thomas Roche

When I returned to the conference, Lane gave me the finger with a smile that said "I know you had a filthy dream about me, muthafukka."


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