A Day in the Life of Misty Stone
by
Mark Johnson
HARD-CORE’S NEW NUMBER-ONE BLACK STAR IS ADDICTED TO XXX SUCCESS, BUT BEHIND THE SMILEY, SEXY IMAGE IS A SOUL OF SURPRISING CONVICTIONS.
IT’S NOT HARD TO PEEL THE CLOTHES OFF OF A PORN STAR. Just point a camera at her. But peeling the layers of public image away to get at the real woman—if there is one—is a whole other matter.
I knew I faced a challenge when I rang Misty Stone’s intercom on a bright fall day in the San Fernando Valley. “Hi, baby, I’ll be right down,” said a pleasant voice, as if it knew me. Porn chicks call everyone “baby” or “sweets” or something similar. It’s one of the layers.
A few minutes later the gate swung open. Misty stood in the middle of the driveway wrapped in nothing but a bath towel. She had just gotten out of the shower and hadn’t slapped on her trademark look. One layer gone. She smiled and gave me a warm hug. “Follow me,” she said, as if there were any chance I wouldn’t.
Misty unplugged was just as fuckable as the glossy screen version. I told her she could stay that way all day. She didn’t agree.
We walked into one of Porn Valley’s ubiquitous mini-mansions, making our way up a wide staircase. Misty had a room upstairs. Her housemates, also sex bunnies, lived in other far-flung corners of the echoey building.
Misty’s room had an impersonal, transient feel. Most of her stuff was in storage someplace, she explained. Essentially, she was living out of suitcases. She plopped herself into a makeup chair, and a personable young guy started applying the professional mask.
“What do you want me to do today?” Misty asked.
“Whatever you’d do anyway,” I replied. “I’m not here.”
“I’d usually be fucking on camera.”
“This isn’t about porn; this is about the real Misty.”
“But the real Misty loves porn!” she exclaimed. “The real Misty is porn!”
This wasn’t going to be easy
Misty Stone started out in the jizz biz three years previous, with predictable strokers like Ghetto Lollipops, before using her mocha looks and cheerful screen presence to become porn’s interracial it-girl. Prime roles in Not the Cosbys XXX and Tru put her on the A-list. Misty could play the ghetto girl cliché, but her real niche was the bourgeois, white-friendly black chick. Directors were always looking for the “Halle Berry of porn.” In Misty they thought maybe they had found it.
“I grew up in Nebraska,” she said. “I came out here for my junior and senior years in high school, then moved back and tried to start a life there. After dancing at strip clubs, I came back to California. This is where the money is!”
I glanced around, noticing her place was very clean. A little too clean. The bed didn’t look slept in. I told her I wasn’t sure I believed she really lived here. She laughed.
“I have serious OCD. I had to sweep the floor before you came, even though it was clean. I scrub my bathroom every day.”
A clean freak who does dirty things for a living. The irony was too perfect.
“Do you usually do it naked, by any chance?” I ventured.
She flashed me a grin. “As a matter of fact, I do. Are you sure it isn’t too much like porn?”
“I’m sure,” I said.
Misty dropped her towel, clicking into OCD mode. I snapped pictures of the furious tempest of cleanser, splashing water and bronze skin. She wasn’t just cavorting for the camera; she was serious about cleanliness.
“Were you always a clean freak?” I asked.
“No, my mom used to clean up after me. I was such a hell child. I’m not sure what happened.” She bounded to the mirror to check her makeup and choose an outfit.
“Are you happy with your body?” I asked.
“Totally,” she answered.
“No fake boobs on the schedule?”
“I don’t want a breastjob,” she asserted. “I don’t want to change anything about me. I’m very photogenic no matter what I do.”
“You love yourself?”
“I do. Totally.”
I silently resolved to check her boobs in a few years.
“How did you develop your look?” I asked.
“I had a friend, a cute mixed girl. Her hair was so beautiful and curly. I said, ‘I’m stealing that look!’”
“Are you using it because it sells well, makes you look like a mixed girl?”
“Well, she was mixed. But when I use it, it looks more Afrocentric. That’s why everybody thinks it’s so natural.”
I didn’t entirely agree but didn’t argue. There was one last thing to do before heading out. Misty laid out her paraphernalia to roll a healthy supply of prime California medicinal. I didn’t have to ask how she got her porn name.
Ten minutes later we were barreling down Ventura Boulevard in a cluttered Dodge, CD blaring, with Misty behind the wheel taking a deep drag off the day’s first joint. I was enjoying the secondary buzz. Then I noticed that the airbags had been deployed and never replaced.
“Is this your car?” I asked.
“It’s my boyfriend’s. He’s incarcerated. We did everything together: partied, played basketball. I loved him so much.”
“Why don’t you have a new boyfriend?” I asked, wondering if it might have something to do with the car.
“Somebody falling in love with me and getting in my face every day? No. There is other shit that I would like to take care of.” She tossed her purse at me.
“Here, put this on the seat,” Misty commanded. “Not on the floor. Put my purse on the floor, and I’ll be broke. Put it on the seat, I’ll be getting some money today.” Superstition. It might be a desperate attempt to influence random existence, but Misty made it sound reasonable. The pot fog helped.
“Basketball,” I said. “That’s a good idea. Let’s do that.”
“Sure,” she exhaled. “Just have to pick up a check. Money comes first.”
“You live check to check?”
“It’s crazy, right?” Misty reached for the volume knob. “Here’s the song I listen to when I get money. ‘I’m a Diva!’ You know who this is, right?”
I gave her a sheepish look.
“It’s Beyoncé!” she hollered. “I thought you were into black culture!”
“Did I just lose my ghetto pass?”
“Yes!”
As Misty belted out the diva hymn, I contemplated the parallels between Misty and Beyoncé. Like a porn star, Beyoncé had created an alter ego named Sasha Fierce. Sasha was Beyoncé’s ultra-diva self. I, meanwhile, was trying to get at the real woman behind porn diva Misty Stone.
We found an empty basketball court. Misty stubbed out a cigarette, then started dribbling and bouncing shots off the backboard like a pro. After ten minutes she was out of breath.
“I guess it’s a little more strenuous than having sex all the time,” I joked.
“I can’t believe I’m feeling this already!” she wheezed. “It’s because I don’t work out anymore. I can’t actually work out too much because otherwise I’ll lose my breasts and become all muscle.”
I didn’t remind her that she had walked onto the court with a cigarette in her hand.
“I was so active in high school,” Misty yelled, sinking a shot. “I used to bench-press a hundred pounds when I weighed 115. Played basketball for the Crenshaw Cougars, number 31—that was me. Shout out!” She went for another layup. I snapped pictures until she’d had enough hoops.
Leaving the court, I made the fateful mistake of walking around a tree.
“What are you doing?” she hollered, utterly horrified. “Don’t put the tree between us! Walk on the same side!” If the purse on the floor meant going broke, I shuddered to think what horrors the tree thing would cause.
We swung back by Misty’s place so she could change, then hit a swank mall for some shopping. I watched her grab a couple of cute tops, suck on a free lollipop and flirt with a security guard who told her she couldn’t pose for pictures in front of Fuddruckers. Wherever Misty went, people gawked. She soaked up the attention like a sponge.
Misty was three joints into the day by this point, so she jumped on my offer of an ice cream sundae. Her mouth full of sweets and her eyes a little misty, she became contemplative. “I don’t do stuff like this much. I work all the time.” She paused, took another mouthful. “My friends tell me I have to work on my social skills.”
“Are you always thinking you could be making money instead?”
“Yes!” she exclaimed.
“You’ll drive yourself crazy that way.”
“I always need money! Everybody’s got to take the work they can. I’m a hustler, always busy. It’s in my nature.”
Always busy. To keep from thinking? Feeling? In the car again, I dusted off a question that makes most porn stars cringe. “Are you interested in politics?”
“I’m glad that we have Obama,” she replied.
“Did you vote for him?”
“Hell yes! I had to be part of that. I had to be able to tell my kids, ‘Mommy made that happen.’ On Election Day my car was in the shop. I said to myself, You are not sitting home. Go and vote! That’s the story I will tell my kids: Mommy walked to vote for Obama!”
A cop car ahead slowed to let Misty turn across his lane. “Look how nice they are when you’re pretty— and you have a white man in the car,” Misty said, laughing. “There’s Jerry’s Deli. Let’s eat.”
While we chewed pastrami, the talk drifted back to money and Mom: “I spend a lot, but my mom makes sure I put money away.
Mom’s going to make sure I’m CEO of Misty Stone Productions, trust me.”
“Does she live here in L.A.?”
“I don’t have any family on the West Coast. They’re in Nebraska. I go home for holidays, like everybody does. I like the cold. Kills germs.”
“Does your family give you a hard time about doing porn?”
“No, they’re very supportive,” she said.
Stock answer. I kept pushing. “Never any problem at all?”
“At first they talked their shit,” Misty relented. “But I’m a very assertive woman. My family doesn’t come at me with disrespect. They crack their jokes, but that’s it. My mama is the rock. She’s like, ‘My baby is doin’ it!’ She doesn’t love it, but she loves the fact that I’m presenting myself as a woman and not a little whore-slut-bitch.”
“So she doesn’t watch your movies.”
“No,” Misty chuckled. “She doesn’t play that shit because of my dad and the kids. She says, ‘I don’t care what you do. Ain’t nobody gonna see it up in here!’”
“Your dad knows what you do?”
“He knows. But he never says anything. He doesn’t even say ‘I love you.’ I tell him I love him all the time, and he never tells me back. You’re whack, Dad!”
A psychoanalyst could have a field day with that one.
Heading back to her place, I painted a nightmare scenario: “What if porn became illegal tomorrow? Would you still be successful?”
I didn’t see the answer coming: “I believe in God very strongly, so I would just put it in God’s hands.”
“Does God support what you’re doing?” I asked.
“Oh, yes. He is the reason I am on top. I thank God for my good health and my goodness. He is amazing. I want everybody to know that. I don’t have many family or friends out here, but I have Him. And I’m okay.”
“A lot of people would say God doesn’t like porn.”
“Everything is what you make it. What I do has good to it. I’m pleasing a lot of people. There’s a guy out there who doesn’t get a lot of pussy, and he just wants to watch a porno and jack off. I’m happy; they’re happy. I don’t think I should go to Hell for that. No sin is bigger than another. Somebody steals a candy bar; I’m sucking dick on camera. God loves me just as much as he loves you, baby!”
It was one of the best arguments for the righteousness of smut that I’d ever heard.
Misty dropped me off at my car, and I signed off with a hug. I had gotten some clues, a few possible insights. But peeling back all the layers of superstitious, God-fearing, workaholic, clean-freak porn diva Misty Stone would take a lot longer than one day. And she would probably never stop hustling long enough for that to happen.
BONUS SHIT!!
Another rare Misty video!
Video Link- http://www.filefactory.com/file/ag5aeb5
by
Mark Johnson
HARD-CORE’S NEW NUMBER-ONE BLACK STAR IS ADDICTED TO XXX SUCCESS, BUT BEHIND THE SMILEY, SEXY IMAGE IS A SOUL OF SURPRISING CONVICTIONS.
IT’S NOT HARD TO PEEL THE CLOTHES OFF OF A PORN STAR. Just point a camera at her. But peeling the layers of public image away to get at the real woman—if there is one—is a whole other matter.
I knew I faced a challenge when I rang Misty Stone’s intercom on a bright fall day in the San Fernando Valley. “Hi, baby, I’ll be right down,” said a pleasant voice, as if it knew me. Porn chicks call everyone “baby” or “sweets” or something similar. It’s one of the layers.
A few minutes later the gate swung open. Misty stood in the middle of the driveway wrapped in nothing but a bath towel. She had just gotten out of the shower and hadn’t slapped on her trademark look. One layer gone. She smiled and gave me a warm hug. “Follow me,” she said, as if there were any chance I wouldn’t.
Misty unplugged was just as fuckable as the glossy screen version. I told her she could stay that way all day. She didn’t agree.
We walked into one of Porn Valley’s ubiquitous mini-mansions, making our way up a wide staircase. Misty had a room upstairs. Her housemates, also sex bunnies, lived in other far-flung corners of the echoey building.
Misty’s room had an impersonal, transient feel. Most of her stuff was in storage someplace, she explained. Essentially, she was living out of suitcases. She plopped herself into a makeup chair, and a personable young guy started applying the professional mask.
“What do you want me to do today?” Misty asked.
“Whatever you’d do anyway,” I replied. “I’m not here.”
“I’d usually be fucking on camera.”
“This isn’t about porn; this is about the real Misty.”
“But the real Misty loves porn!” she exclaimed. “The real Misty is porn!”
This wasn’t going to be easy
Misty Stone started out in the jizz biz three years previous, with predictable strokers like Ghetto Lollipops, before using her mocha looks and cheerful screen presence to become porn’s interracial it-girl. Prime roles in Not the Cosbys XXX and Tru put her on the A-list. Misty could play the ghetto girl cliché, but her real niche was the bourgeois, white-friendly black chick. Directors were always looking for the “Halle Berry of porn.” In Misty they thought maybe they had found it.
“I grew up in Nebraska,” she said. “I came out here for my junior and senior years in high school, then moved back and tried to start a life there. After dancing at strip clubs, I came back to California. This is where the money is!”
I glanced around, noticing her place was very clean. A little too clean. The bed didn’t look slept in. I told her I wasn’t sure I believed she really lived here. She laughed.
“I have serious OCD. I had to sweep the floor before you came, even though it was clean. I scrub my bathroom every day.”
A clean freak who does dirty things for a living. The irony was too perfect.
“Do you usually do it naked, by any chance?” I ventured.
She flashed me a grin. “As a matter of fact, I do. Are you sure it isn’t too much like porn?”
“I’m sure,” I said.
Misty dropped her towel, clicking into OCD mode. I snapped pictures of the furious tempest of cleanser, splashing water and bronze skin. She wasn’t just cavorting for the camera; she was serious about cleanliness.
“Were you always a clean freak?” I asked.
“No, my mom used to clean up after me. I was such a hell child. I’m not sure what happened.” She bounded to the mirror to check her makeup and choose an outfit.
“Are you happy with your body?” I asked.
“Totally,” she answered.
“No fake boobs on the schedule?”
“I don’t want a breastjob,” she asserted. “I don’t want to change anything about me. I’m very photogenic no matter what I do.”
“You love yourself?”
“I do. Totally.”
I silently resolved to check her boobs in a few years.
“How did you develop your look?” I asked.
“I had a friend, a cute mixed girl. Her hair was so beautiful and curly. I said, ‘I’m stealing that look!’”
“Are you using it because it sells well, makes you look like a mixed girl?”
“Well, she was mixed. But when I use it, it looks more Afrocentric. That’s why everybody thinks it’s so natural.”
I didn’t entirely agree but didn’t argue. There was one last thing to do before heading out. Misty laid out her paraphernalia to roll a healthy supply of prime California medicinal. I didn’t have to ask how she got her porn name.
Ten minutes later we were barreling down Ventura Boulevard in a cluttered Dodge, CD blaring, with Misty behind the wheel taking a deep drag off the day’s first joint. I was enjoying the secondary buzz. Then I noticed that the airbags had been deployed and never replaced.
“Is this your car?” I asked.
“It’s my boyfriend’s. He’s incarcerated. We did everything together: partied, played basketball. I loved him so much.”
“Why don’t you have a new boyfriend?” I asked, wondering if it might have something to do with the car.
“Somebody falling in love with me and getting in my face every day? No. There is other shit that I would like to take care of.” She tossed her purse at me.
“Here, put this on the seat,” Misty commanded. “Not on the floor. Put my purse on the floor, and I’ll be broke. Put it on the seat, I’ll be getting some money today.” Superstition. It might be a desperate attempt to influence random existence, but Misty made it sound reasonable. The pot fog helped.
“Basketball,” I said. “That’s a good idea. Let’s do that.”
“Sure,” she exhaled. “Just have to pick up a check. Money comes first.”
“You live check to check?”
“It’s crazy, right?” Misty reached for the volume knob. “Here’s the song I listen to when I get money. ‘I’m a Diva!’ You know who this is, right?”
I gave her a sheepish look.
“It’s Beyoncé!” she hollered. “I thought you were into black culture!”
“Did I just lose my ghetto pass?”
“Yes!”
As Misty belted out the diva hymn, I contemplated the parallels between Misty and Beyoncé. Like a porn star, Beyoncé had created an alter ego named Sasha Fierce. Sasha was Beyoncé’s ultra-diva self. I, meanwhile, was trying to get at the real woman behind porn diva Misty Stone.
We found an empty basketball court. Misty stubbed out a cigarette, then started dribbling and bouncing shots off the backboard like a pro. After ten minutes she was out of breath.
“I guess it’s a little more strenuous than having sex all the time,” I joked.
“I can’t believe I’m feeling this already!” she wheezed. “It’s because I don’t work out anymore. I can’t actually work out too much because otherwise I’ll lose my breasts and become all muscle.”
I didn’t remind her that she had walked onto the court with a cigarette in her hand.
“I was so active in high school,” Misty yelled, sinking a shot. “I used to bench-press a hundred pounds when I weighed 115. Played basketball for the Crenshaw Cougars, number 31—that was me. Shout out!” She went for another layup. I snapped pictures until she’d had enough hoops.
Leaving the court, I made the fateful mistake of walking around a tree.
“What are you doing?” she hollered, utterly horrified. “Don’t put the tree between us! Walk on the same side!” If the purse on the floor meant going broke, I shuddered to think what horrors the tree thing would cause.
We swung back by Misty’s place so she could change, then hit a swank mall for some shopping. I watched her grab a couple of cute tops, suck on a free lollipop and flirt with a security guard who told her she couldn’t pose for pictures in front of Fuddruckers. Wherever Misty went, people gawked. She soaked up the attention like a sponge.
Misty was three joints into the day by this point, so she jumped on my offer of an ice cream sundae. Her mouth full of sweets and her eyes a little misty, she became contemplative. “I don’t do stuff like this much. I work all the time.” She paused, took another mouthful. “My friends tell me I have to work on my social skills.”
“Are you always thinking you could be making money instead?”
“Yes!” she exclaimed.
“You’ll drive yourself crazy that way.”
“I always need money! Everybody’s got to take the work they can. I’m a hustler, always busy. It’s in my nature.”
Always busy. To keep from thinking? Feeling? In the car again, I dusted off a question that makes most porn stars cringe. “Are you interested in politics?”
“I’m glad that we have Obama,” she replied.
“Did you vote for him?”
“Hell yes! I had to be part of that. I had to be able to tell my kids, ‘Mommy made that happen.’ On Election Day my car was in the shop. I said to myself, You are not sitting home. Go and vote! That’s the story I will tell my kids: Mommy walked to vote for Obama!”
A cop car ahead slowed to let Misty turn across his lane. “Look how nice they are when you’re pretty— and you have a white man in the car,” Misty said, laughing. “There’s Jerry’s Deli. Let’s eat.”
While we chewed pastrami, the talk drifted back to money and Mom: “I spend a lot, but my mom makes sure I put money away.
Mom’s going to make sure I’m CEO of Misty Stone Productions, trust me.”
“Does she live here in L.A.?”
“I don’t have any family on the West Coast. They’re in Nebraska. I go home for holidays, like everybody does. I like the cold. Kills germs.”
“Does your family give you a hard time about doing porn?”
“No, they’re very supportive,” she said.
Stock answer. I kept pushing. “Never any problem at all?”
“At first they talked their shit,” Misty relented. “But I’m a very assertive woman. My family doesn’t come at me with disrespect. They crack their jokes, but that’s it. My mama is the rock. She’s like, ‘My baby is doin’ it!’ She doesn’t love it, but she loves the fact that I’m presenting myself as a woman and not a little whore-slut-bitch.”
“So she doesn’t watch your movies.”
“No,” Misty chuckled. “She doesn’t play that shit because of my dad and the kids. She says, ‘I don’t care what you do. Ain’t nobody gonna see it up in here!’”
“Your dad knows what you do?”
“He knows. But he never says anything. He doesn’t even say ‘I love you.’ I tell him I love him all the time, and he never tells me back. You’re whack, Dad!”
A psychoanalyst could have a field day with that one.
Heading back to her place, I painted a nightmare scenario: “What if porn became illegal tomorrow? Would you still be successful?”
I didn’t see the answer coming: “I believe in God very strongly, so I would just put it in God’s hands.”
“Does God support what you’re doing?” I asked.
“Oh, yes. He is the reason I am on top. I thank God for my good health and my goodness. He is amazing. I want everybody to know that. I don’t have many family or friends out here, but I have Him. And I’m okay.”
“A lot of people would say God doesn’t like porn.”
“Everything is what you make it. What I do has good to it. I’m pleasing a lot of people. There’s a guy out there who doesn’t get a lot of pussy, and he just wants to watch a porno and jack off. I’m happy; they’re happy. I don’t think I should go to Hell for that. No sin is bigger than another. Somebody steals a candy bar; I’m sucking dick on camera. God loves me just as much as he loves you, baby!”
It was one of the best arguments for the righteousness of smut that I’d ever heard.
Misty dropped me off at my car, and I signed off with a hug. I had gotten some clues, a few possible insights. But peeling back all the layers of superstitious, God-fearing, workaholic, clean-freak porn diva Misty Stone would take a lot longer than one day. And she would probably never stop hustling long enough for that to happen.
BONUS SHIT!!
Another rare Misty video!
Video Link- http://www.filefactory.com/file/ag5aeb5
