opinion

All's Fair in Love, War

Holly Randall
I don't normally frequent porn parties, so when I was invited to the Wicked Pictures charity barbecue, I was inclined to pass. That was until Wicked's vice president Joy King dangled the irresistible carrot before me: there would be a dunk tank, and Luke Ford was going to be in it.

Now before anyone can understand my gleeful anticipation of dropping this man into a tank of water before a jeering crowd, one must know my history with the adult industry's most controversial, yet most famous, blogger. Those who hate him tend to be his most dedicated readers, and those fascinated by him must relate in some way to his love-hate relationship with porn.

I spent quite a few years in the industry before I even knew who Luke Ford was. When I finally got a publicist, I was warned against this snake of a man, a truly sociopathic beast I was told, one who twisted your words to suit his own agenda, which of course was never in your favor.

Since I'm the kind of girl who likes to do exactly the opposite of what she's told, when I met Luke in Tampa at the Nightmoves Awards Show, I instantly latched onto him, curious to know this person I'd heard such horrible things about.

What initially attracted me to Luke was that he was an outsider. He always carried a very serious book in his back pocket at parties, so that when he didn't have an innocent young starlet to corner and pose disarming and uncomfortable questions to, he could retreat to a dark corner and immerse himself in tedious literature.

Though I would never pull a book out at a party, I could relate, and often wished I had one when I was stuck somewhere I didn't feel I belonged. And that was often. In fact, I felt it then at that Florida show. I felt it almost all the time when I attended industry functions: I'm not with the "in" crowd and nobody really wants to talk to me. Except for the bartender of course, because I'm going to be his biggest customer that night.

So Luke and I got to know each other, and though we didn't become intimate at that show, it did happen later. I'm asked often why I became involved with Luke, and all I can say is that I was like the dumb kid in the sandbox who plays with the scorpion because I don't think it will sting me. And he didn't until I did what I usually do: end the relationship, and badly.

Of course, it was then I felt the sting. He wrote extensively on my poor behavior, and it wasn't very nice, to say the least. Deep down I knew I deserved it, but my ego was bruised. After some time we reconciled and I thought things were pretty good between us. That is, until I sent myself to rehab, for the second time.

In my depressed and half-drunk state right before my departure, I let it slip to some industry people that I would be going away to treatment and would be unable to fulfill some of my obligations. I had been away for almost a week when I logged into his site and read the introductory title to his little introspective on my sudden departure: "Rehab —What Better Time To Mock Someone?" My temper flared: I called him up and screamed at him when he picked up the phone. And of course, he recorded it all.

In that recording, I swore I would never be his friend again. I swore I would never feel anything but disgust and apathy toward him. And at the time, I really meant it. But I couldn't keep it up. I can't stay angry for long and I do not have the energy to hate anyone. In this respect, I suppose my laziness actually does me some good.

Luke and I made up (sort-of) months after this final dispute, but we were never close again. I still harbored some resentment against him, which brings us back to the party and his participation in the dunk tank. Suddenly I saw a harmless and even comical way of exacting my revenge upon him, and I'll be damned if I wasn't going to take it.

I admit that I am almost incapable of being on time for anything, but the day of the party, I was actually early. There was no way I was missing my opportunity or allow someone to get to Luke before I could. I wanted him dry and jubilant before I plunged him into the dark waters of my sweet revenge. People joked with me about my anticipation for the event and I chuckled along with them. There was merriment in my laugh and lightness in my step, but there was murder in my eyes. I'd been practicing my throw all week. Luke was going down.

Finally my moment came. I bought 20 raffle tickets in case I missed, but Joy promised me that I could throw the ball as many times as needed to hit my target. My first throw was utterly embarrassing — I threw the ball straight at the floor. My next two were just as bad, going nowhere near the white disc that would drop the plank out from under Luke's seat. Luke was growing confident that I would never hit my mark, and he began to viciously taunt me. I laughed along with the crowd, but my blood boiled. He was not going to humiliate me again.

Just as my frustration was mounting, my ball met its mark and Luke was dropped into the tank. In fact, as the words: "Holly you suck!" escaped his lips, he plummeted to a soggy demise in such a way that his last word "suck" was drawn out into a long wail, much like someone who was falling into a bottomless abyss.

After my triumph, I held out the olive branch and helped my former nemesis get dried off and dressed. We were friends again, my resentment having been washed away by that splash in the dunk tank. It's almost fitting that such a silly little feud could be resolved by a carnival game.

My revenge had been enacted, my bloodlust quenched. And Luke, being the newly baptized gentleman he was, kindly walked me to my car.

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