Page 32 - AVN July 2018

ON THE SET | By Shawn Alff
LIGHTS, CAMERA ...
WHO WE PRETEND TO BE
How I faked it as a performer on Kay Brandt’s set
she had cast me based on my curated Instagram image. To be fair, my social media persona did
boast several photos of me draped in furs while flanked by porn stars. Perhaps she believed I
was the guy I pretended to be online. Maybe I should have some faith in that guy, too.
My slow-motion entrance was slated as the first shot of the day. I dressed my anxiety in fur
and huge Fendi glasses, both of which came from the women’s section of a thrift store.
“Pretend this studio is your house and you’re returning home,” Kay directed as I stepped
outside to wait for my cue.
I had dreamed of having a grand entrance my entire life. Now the moment was here and
I was left trying to remember how to walk, let alone how to strut while projecting all the
confidence, power and wealth I lacked off screen.
“Action,” Kay yelled.
I threw open the door and sauntered inside passed the cameras. I dropped my fur coat and
stepped onto the white screen to greet the lingerie models, Aaliyah Love and Bridgette B.
Aaliyah had the ageless body of a college cheerleader topped with the face of a doll: large eyes
and big cheeks framed by blonde ringlets. Bridgette looked like she belonged on a Miami yacht.
She had deeply tanned Latin skin, bleached blond hair, enormous tits atop a toned frame, and
an unflawed face dramatized by dark makeup.
“I’m sorry I’m late, my darlings,” I said in a bizarre accent. “I just flew in on a private jet
from my home country: Paris. Maybe you’ve heard of it.”
This was a montage segment, so none of my ad-libbing would make it in the film. The
accent, and my stage arrogance, disguised my anxiety. As best as I could tell, I was channeling
the French accent of my porn idol, Manuel Ferrara, who was so suave he could make dirty talk
about assholes sound like French poetry.
“You’re both extraordinarily average-looking,” I told Aaliyah and Bridgette. “I’ve shot better,
but I will make you look beautiful, like me. This is my art.”
“Cut,” Kay yelled. “Perfect, Shawn. You’re a natural douche bag.”
My buffoonery was inspiring. Kay joked that she would make a spinoff about my character.
Part of me indulged this fantasy. One compliment about my superior ass-clownery and I was
already suffering delusions of grandeur.
We kept shooting more montage segments. I coached the models on how to make their asses
pop like mine. Then I informed them that I had the completely original idea to photograph
them grabbing each other’s tits. It would be my magnum opus.
Was I making fun of arrogant artists or living out a suppressed fantasy? How far could I ride
my false confidence? Could I kiss them and pretend I was improvising? Could I dry hump them
and claim I was method acting? If I really was a world-renowned photographer, what would
keep me from becoming the dick I was pretending to be? Which came first, success or ego?
“I SEE YOUR CHARACTER AS REALLY
INTO HIMSELF AND PRETENTIOUS. IN
THE BOOK THE PHOTOGRAPHER IS
A PSYCHOPATH, BUT I HAD TO TONE
HER CHARACTER DOWN FOR PORN.”
—KAY BRANDT, DIRECTOR OF ‘THE SEDUCTION OF HEIDI’
I whipped out my camera as a prop. Bridgette commented that my gear was surprisingly
small for a photographer of my stature. I was unfazed. It wasn’t the camera. It was what you
did with it. And what I did with my camera was take selfies.
Then my PA, Logan Long, stepped in to speed along the production. I reprimanded him. I
told him I was an artist, that selfies were part of my process.
Logan was dressed in a plain T-shirt, jeans and Converse All-Stars—the exact outfit I wore as
a PA. He was my porn doppel-banger. The meta scene created a funhouse of mirrors. I was the
least confident and crucial person on set, and yet I was pretending to be the most prestigious.
Still, it felt cathartic to get to strut and fret my hour upon the stage before I returned to the
silence on the other side of the camera, to fetch coffees and deliver douches to performers.
“I’m so glad I cast you,” Kay told me when the montage sequence was wrapped. “Your accent
is so bad it’s great. I want you to use it during your dialogue.”
She couldn’t be serious. My accent sounded like I had a culturally insensitive speech
impediment. To make matters worse, my bad acting would be matched against Whitney
Wright. She had landed the role of Heidi because she was actually taking dialect and acting
classes, and because she could transform from a meek PA into a model.
What remained of my confidence vanished when the leading man, Ryan Driller, entered
(Continued on page 34)
Bridgette B. with wanna-be porn thespian Shawn Alff (photos courtesy Shawn Alff).
My career in the adult industry has been
built on lies. I’ve faked my way onto porn
sets by feigning competence as a publicist,
a journalist and a production assistant
(PA). I believe pretending is a precursor to
becoming. Recently I pulled off my biggest
con to date. I faked my way in front of the
camera as a paid performer.
I arrived on the set of The Seduction of Heidi several hours early so my
nervous energy had plenty of time to fixate on more pressing concerns,
like forgetting my lines. I reclined on a chaise lounge in the dressing
room, affecting a pose of supreme ease as I cycled between applying
fresh layers of deodorant and reviewing the script that writer/director
Kay Brandt adapted from Selena Kitt’s book, Heidi and the Kaiser, for this
Adam & Eve Pictures production. The story followed a fashion mogul
who convinces a lowly PA, Heidi, to sign a contract to be his personal
assistant/mistress. I played the photographer on the photo shoot where
these two met. I saw the script as prophecy. Perhaps I too would be
discovered by one of the famed female performers in need of a personal
assistant with benefits.
Kay surveyed my wardrobe options, which included several faux fur
coats she insisted I bring.
“I was thinking the fur and no shirt,” she said.
“You want me to be half naked on camera with porn stars?” I asked.
She nodded. I tried to calm down, to remind myself that no amount
of sit-ups would ever give me the confidence to appear shirtless beside
professional body artists.
“I see your character as really into himself and pretentious,” Kay
said. “In the book the photographer is a psychopath, but I had to tone
her character down for porn.”
“Her character?”
“Originally the photographer was a woman,” Kay said. “But then I
thought of you and knew you’d be perfect for the role.”
With that Kay left to direct her crew on where to set up. It seemed
32 | AVN.com | 7.18