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) and says, "Thanks for coming." I can’t help cringing and wishing that the first sentence Max Hardcore said to me hadn’t contained the word "coming." And that he hadn’t said it quite so loudly.\n We find an empty bench and sit down. The den doubles as her studio—she gives ever more time to painting since reining in her porn career.

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I like a little kink, yet I can’t help but feel that getting “kinky” by oneself evokes a different word: pathetic.\n The idea of a woman pleasuring herself conjures notions of sensuality, discovery, and tenderness. Walk into a sex-toy shop and you’ll see rows of Wonka-colored female sex toys proudly displayed.

There’s elegance to it.\n Now picture some guy jacking off. The disembodied holes meant for men are tucked away, because investing too much care (and money) in replicating the female form is creepy.

He is of medium height, with silver hair and an easy smile; with his cowboy hat off and his pants on, he looks like a dentist, like a salesman, like he’d be more interested in putting me in a Toyota than a porn film. "\n He nods.\n"But they know what they’re getting into," he quickly adds. You don’t feel bad for the guy who loses; you don’t wonder why they’re in the ring."\n"I don’t watch boxing."\n"Why not? "I wonder why they’re in the ring."\n"I have this board," Paul explains, "in my office. First we’re going to deep throat, then we’ll do some puking. "I’m playing this average guy who can get these babes to do all this stuff. "Definitely."\n Ashley was known as the female Max Hardcore; she and Max wanted to make a movie together, but no actresses would agree to be in it for fear of what might happen to them.

He shakes my hand firmly (too firmly; did he hurt those girls, I wonder, did he squeeze them that hard? I tell Paul that I feel like I jerked off to a crime.\n"They know what they’re getting into," says Paul.\n"Do you ever feel guilty? There are twenty Polaroids on it, each one showing what we’re going to do in the scene. Polaroid number twenty-one, presumably.\n We are sitting in the den of Ashley’s tiny ranch house, which sits only a few feet off the edge of an impossibly busy Los Angeles thoroughfare.

It’s how I imagine a Fleshlight would feel if it went to college (a state school, but a good one, like UCLA).