Sensing the onslaught of a midsummer’s downpour, the ill-prepared scatter like herds of sheep under the attack of prairie dogs charging from all directions. Film execs and movie producers run for the cover of their Studio City high-rises. The homeless run for the security of their crumbling cardboard condos lined along Fifth St. in The Nickel. Trannys, tourists, waitresses, and wanna-be actors alike run for the cover of plexiglass bus stop cages and overhead awnings above pricey specialty shops and boutiques. Crusty old broads with too much perfume strap plastic grocery bags to their heads to preserve the stiff knot of freshly groomed hair. Businessmen draped in Armani pull suit coats over their heads and employ the use of briefcases to shield themselves from the liquid assault. Squinty-eyed hipsters in tight jeans struggle with the weight of designer umbrellas and drug dealers retreat back into the dry, dark nooks of the dope spots throughout the Central District.
Heavy rainfall in the Los Angeles area is a hazardous phenomenon. The downpour throws people off. Experienced drivers seem to forget how to operate a motorized vehicle and there’s an underline feeling of anxiety that can’t fully be expressed with words. Perhaps it’s the extra element of danger that rainfall in the LA area presents to its unique landscape. Highways and bike paths are often subjected to rock and mudslides and on a rare occasion you may spot an elderly Asian couple trapped in a late model station wagon being swept away in the muddy rage of a flash flood. An extra element of chaos in an already chaotic environment.
There’s a smell in the air after a hard rain in Los Angeles. Something comparable to the coat of a wet dog and the carcass of road kill that’s been repeatedly neglected by LA Streets and Sanitation. The subtle smell of death in the heat rising from the streets of unachieved dreams, carried down through the hillsides by a salty ocean breeze.
For Simon Felix, the event of an LA downpour brings a welcomed sense of calm. A reason for isolation. He prefers the company of his solitude these days so it’s comforting when he’s presented with a justifiable excuse. To call him a recluse would be an unfair statement but to say he welcomes the opportunity to shine in the spotlight of yesteryears would be a great exaggeration. He’s become increasingly frustrated over time with being recognized in public. It’s not the attention that bothers him. It’s the reason for the attention that leaves a bad taste in his mouth. He’s that special kind of celebrity who attracts intoxicated frat boys with demands to appear alongside in a photograph. His autograph is a sought after item and even on a quiet day he’s still subject to the leering eyes of half-cocked heads and the vibrations of whispers on the back of his neck. He has a following in both the gay and straight communities as well as the admiration of both male and female and those who fall in the category of in-between. His fan base is worldwide and though most experiences are positive, he’s not exempt from negative encounters. He’s been called a pig on more than a few occasions and he was once attacked by a mob of overweight feminists armed with dildos molded from his very own cock. He’s a figure who’s just as easily recognized in the world of mainstream celebrity as he is in the world of porn.
Simon Felix is that rare icon. His career spans over three decades of on-screen sex dating back to the time when celluloid copulation first leaped out of the dark closets of dingy sex shops and onto movie screens across the country. An era when adult filmmaking was on the forefront of an evolving sexual revolution and was embraced publicly as part of a chic new movement. It wasn’t rare at that time for couples to be seen lining up to experience cinemas exciting new vision. Pressure from activist groups and lawmakers would eventually shame the monster back into the alleyways and seedy jerk booths in the worst parts of cities across the country but for a brief moment in time adult films were all the rage. The seeds had been planted and sex on film was destined to spread like wildfire. Simon Felix would play an important role in making that happen.
The early years were fresh and exciting. As dark and shadowy as the "behind-the scenes" still were, they were simpler times. Almost innocent compared to the no-limit standards of today. A time before AIDS. A time before cocaine was cooked into crack. A time when chicks rarely had dicks. When disco was cool and vaginas still came with hair. Early 70’s classics like Deep Throat and Behind the Green Door thrust performers like Linda Lovelace and Marilyn Chambers into the same spotlight as their Hollywood counterparts. Porno in the 70’s had arrived in a big way and those who were there from the beginning would forever be marked as pioneers of the original outlaw entertainment.
Time being the unstoppable beast that it is would naturally find the industry boiling over into the 80’s. The new face of porn was realized in performers like Christy Canyon, Jeanna Fine, Tori Welles and blonde bombshells like Nina Hartley, Ginger Lynn, and Seka. The industry would have an audience like never before in the years to come and there was no shortage of willing participants to offer their service of sex in motion picture. With the invention of the VCR in the early 80’s, porn was taken from a wide open public setting and given new life in the privacy of the home. By 1984 almost every household had one. Hell, it was the reason most people bought one. Adult videos could now be bought and rented and traded like baseball cards at an adult playground. The growth of the industry was unprecedented thanks in part to the invention of that ingenious little machine. Prior to the VCR, top producers of porn were generating over $800,000 a year in profit. In the post-VCR era, those same producers were averaging $10 Million in profit annually. Primal-minded degenerates became rich overnight and every scumbag from New York to LA wanted a piece of the hair pie.
Like many of his contemporaries, Simon Felix found the video surge of the 1980’s something that required a getting used to. Discussions ensued over issues of aesthetic and direction. Porno of the 70’s was often cheesy and low budget but it was filmmaking none the less. There was an emphasis on character development and the sex was usually part of a larger story. When the video age arrived you were lucky if a story was part of the sex. The video age would turn the industry into a meat market. Porno was being churned out quicker than people could jerk off. The quality of the production began to diminish and was quickly traded for quantity. Although there was more money and opportunity, there was also more competition and pressure. Demand was on the rise.
Despite his initial reservations, Simon’s popularity would soar in the 80’s. His name was already established from the 70’s and in a time before Viagra, he was an actor who could always get the job done. The flood of wanna-be male porn stars found out rather quickly how difficult it could be maintaining an erection with a crew of sweaty cameramen hovering over yer balls and shoving lights in yer ass. Throw in the added pressure of blowin a money shot on request and the rest were weeded out.
The 80’s would come and go and Simon would usher the filth into the 90’s. New faces replaced old ones and stars like Janine, Houston, Julia Ann, and Silvia Saint would dominate the market. It was in the mid 90’s where his distaste for the industry first began to the surface. He didn’t mind the mass production of poorly produced sex in the 80’s and he quickly got over the idea of his work being shot on video instead of film, but something changed when porn went gonzo.
Mainstream porn in the late 90’s became increasingly more aggressive and violent. The storylines were all but gone and subgenres that were once considered fetish and reserved to a smaller audience were now becoming the norm. Gangbangs, extreme insertions, bondage, gaping, gagging, cum-swapping, fisting, pissing, double anal, double vag - degrading sex acts passed off as casual entertainment were now being consumed on a larger scale. The invention of the Internet only added to the demand for more extreme forms of porn. Although he had no control over the evolution of the industry, Simone couldn’t help but acknowledge the role he played in bringing porn to where it now stood. He began to bear the silent burden of a great moral dilemma. Never before had he questioned a producer, a director, or a sexual partner on the direction of a film but by the end of the 90’s he began to vocalize his opinion on the matter. Simon couldn’t keep up with the young bucks and something inside him questioned whether or not he even wanted to.
By the early 2000’s Simon Felix had seen enough. By 2004, he found himself very much retired from the industry. Years of arguments about demoralizing sex acts, battles over money with producers, disagreements about direction with directors, and disbelief over the shit young girls were willing to do on film had taken its toll. What he’d taken away from it all was a damaged conscience, a vicious resentment, and an increasing drinking habit. Quite the predicament for a man whose life was dedicated to a career of sex on film.
His legacy remains fully intact to this day. He’s still in demand as a performer and there are a number of actresses who would jump at the opportunity for an onscreen bust down. He's aged gracefully over the years and despite his drinking habits he's still in great physical shape. His blue eyes still shine bright accented by a full head of jet black hair that has yet to turn grey at 57. His skin tone is a constant shade of red thanks to frequent touch ups at the tanning salon. His 6 foot 2 physique still stands strong and firm and he could still outperform the Viagra-fueled pretty boys oversaturating the industry today. He’s constantly propositioned for comeback scenes but the offers are kindly refused. In 2009 he was inducted into the AVN Hall of Fame and was a no show.
Simon Felix doesn’t have the answers for the questions that dance around his head. For now he prefers a place far away from reality. A place that’s neither located in the past, the present, or the future. Unmapped by time or space. Falling somewhere just below the realm of reality where the consequence of action isn’t realized until the trip is over. A state of numbness. A place that requires no less than a bottle of Johnny Walker Black to get there.
As he relaxes on the balcony of his three story loft overlooking the city's landscape, he tries to remember the last time Los Angeles suffered a rainfall like the one it's fallen victim to at the moment. It feels like an eternity ago. He wonders if this would be the deep cleanse that would wash the city clean of its filth and impurity. He's quickly snapped back into reality with the crack of thunder and realizes that what’s been done to this city can't be washed away. Nothing could get rid of a stain like that. The lights may shine bright at night but there’s a dark side capable of snuffing it out in the blink of an eye. An underbelly of greed and glamor where the lines are always blurred.
Staring out into the gloomy LA skyline, Simon takes a deep breath and focuses on the sounds of the raindrops exploding on the rooftop above. He looks down a catches a glimpse of his reflection on the glassy surface of his gold tinted scotch-whiskey. He stares back into his eyes as a lifetime of industry-related events flood the landscape of his mind. He chuckles to himself at the idea of people visiting his handprints outside the old Pussy Cat Theatre on Santa Monica in West Hollywood. He reflects back to 1982 at the time he testified for John Holmes as a character witness in the Wonderland Murder Trials. He recalls the industry being turned upside down in 1986 when it was discovered that Traci Lords was only 15 when she first fucked on film. He looked back in sorrow at the death of friends and co-workers over the years. Shauna Grant left a dark stain on the industry in 1984 after putting a .22 long rifle in her mouth and pulling the trigger. Fellow co-worker Savannah ended her life in the same way ten years later with a momentary lapse of judgment fueled by drugs and depression. The more recent deaths of long-time friends from suicide like Jon Dough and Anastasia Blue were a reminder of how damaging the industry could be on the psyche.
Simon catches himself dwelling deep in the past and makes a conscious effort to interrupt the flow of his racing thoughts. His mind switches to more entertaining images of water-soaked passersby’s running for shelter from the rain on the streets below. Sounds of the past generated from memory are replaced by imagined noises of high heels clicking on cracked concrete and soggy sneakers splashing in oil soaked puddles.
Just as Simon begins to doze off into an alcohol induced coma, his nod is interrupted by the Hotel California ringtone of his cell phone. It’s his hanger-on of a protégé and wanna-be pornstar Thomas ‘The Hook” Walts. He's either calling to inform Simon about a job opportunity or he's calling to talk him into a night on the town. Simon lets it go to voicemail and thinks to himself, "Who wants to be out in this weather anyway?"