The Domestic Life of a Porn Star

Porn stars are different from you and me. They have more sex.

Candy Apples and her new husband, Bill Nance, live the Huntington Beach dream: pit bulls and a housegirl to watch them. But will the newly busty blonde with the sweet blue eyes ever stop taking it up the ass to pay for it all? A day in the life . . .

Do you remember that scene in Boogie Nights in which Marky Mark and his buddies go to rob the crazy coked-out guy with the lush '80s pad, his silk robe open, the powder flowing, the drugged-out Chinese houseboy wandering around throwing firecrackers, the state-of-the-art stereo booming out Night Ranger at about a million decibels? Porn star Candy Apples' life is nothing like that—except for the houseboy, who in this case is a plump, pretty, wholesome-looking 19-year-old redhead named Natalie.

Natalie has been sleeping on the couch for about two months. Her job is to watch the two pit bulls, Nigel and Cleopatra, whenever Candy and Bill want to leave the one-bedroom Huntington Beach apartment, even for a little while.

The apartment is plain. It has a barren little patio, a smallish kitchen, and a leopard-print rug over gray beach carpet to mark the sitting area. The bathroom is spotless, decorated by a couple of pretty blue candles. The only other decorations in the house—besides the Pokémon motif, the Japanese kid's cartoon to which all three say they're addicted—are the cow skull over the giant TV and a framed Tom Byron photo, inscribed, "To Candy: I wanna ram my big cock up your shithole and then make you suck it, you whore!!!" Five bent-over women, displaying their assholes and snatches like collies in heat, complete the composition. There is a desk and an ugly file cabinet with neat red folders holding her pictures, which look fantastic. Someone has arranged the video games very tidily on the entertainment center.

That compulsively clean someone was probably Candy herself—the woman Hustler's Dick Pursel describes as "the very top of the very bottom of the barrel. She can act, and she's likable, and she seems a bit smarter than most. But she'll do anything." It seems even porn stars are subject to your mother's warnings: men only want good girls. If only they knew how very domestic she is.

Bill and Candy are friendly and fearless; Natalie is a little shier, though she warms up later, when the subject is boys. But of the three, only Bill doesn't seem to recognize that there are maybe things you don't say to a person with a note pad. We are having lunch at a Mexican restaurant around the corner. Bill has ordered the No. 5 for Candy and is telling me about her insomnia. "She has to take sleeping pills!" he exclaims so I'll understand the depth of the problem. They exchange a look. "Just Excedrin PM," Candy clarifies—fast. She's a lot more comfortable joking about the 20 tokes it'll take her to get to sleep. Though both are faultlessly polite and friendly with me, they never look directly at the waiter or thank the busboy, who refills our waters several times.

Candy and Bill are both 26, though he looks younger, despite his goatee and tattoos of blond bondage babes (from the cover of Devil in Miss Jones 6) running down his arms. He's a little bit roly-poly, too. He does not look threatening in the slightest, even though he wears the HB bad-boy uniform. She looks a little older than 26, though not by much—29 perhaps. It's because she's so very thin. She's pretty, though not stunning. Her blue eyes are huge, and her roots are only a couple of shades ashier than her long blond hair. She has a small chin and a couple of patches of adult acne that are very skillfully covered in her sizzling promo pictures and video box covers. She is thinking about having her eyebrows tattooed on so she'll never have to draw them again. She says she's done almost 400 films.

She dresses down during the day in jeans that bag around her tiny ass, maroon Etnies from which she has removed the jingle bell that Natalie fastened—with a warning not to do it again—and a white tank top upon which is emblazoned, "I love porn." She doesn't need a bra, although her breasts seem enormous on her ribby frame. But though they look huge, they're in fact a very reasonable 480 cc's of saline. During the day, when we flit from one tattoo shop to the next, the talk will center on many women's recent boob jobs, and numbers like 600, 650 and 700 will be tossed around. "The other night, she was looking at 'em," Bill says, "and she goes, 'God, they look small! I want 'em bigger!'" It's shop talk. Everyone knows where everyone else got her boobs done. Almost everyone around here goes to a Dr. Nicolli. Also, there's a guy who does boobs in Tijuana, though he's certified here. That way, he doesn't have to use such an expensive anesthesiologist. Candy and Bill paid $4,550—no Tijuana for them—and are well-pleased with the result. Bill can tell you which doctor in Utah is good—they were going to go to him, but he couldn't see them in time to do her boobs before the gangbang—and which doctor isn't. "A whole lotta people got bad jobs from the one guy," Bill tells me.

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