Eric Kaldor

How To Make A Porno For Dummies

When I wrote my porno, I was an average TV writer, living with an average girlfriend in an average neighborhood. Next door to us in an average house lived America’s most successful pornographer, “The King of Smut,” as he was known, had been arrested numerous times. But that didn’t stop him. He considered that as a citizen of The United States of America, he had certain inalienable rights, with the main one being the right to film people when they fucked.

I admired him a lot.

One day my friendly neighborhood pornographer asked me if I wanted to write a porno for him. I leaped at the chance! I was between assignments, a position I frequently found myself in, and I grabbed an old Kojak script and morphed the formidable, homicide detective into a horny, old goat who had Priapism. Priapism is a debilitating disease in which the sufferer sports a constant hard-on. Because of this ailment, Kojak demanded all kinds of sexual favors from everyone he busted. But after he finally achieved orgasm—which always took extensive foreplay—he was a good guy and let the person go.

Over all, I was pleased with my work.

And my pornographer neighbor was ecstatic about it; but asked for a change. He wanted me to add a break in the action exactly two minutes before the end of the picture. When I asked why, he said it was so the audience could zip up.

After I handed in the script with the “zip up” break, everything fell apart. The pornographer neighbor told me there had been a change in plans and that he was no longer going to make my movie! I was crestfallen, but reasoning was he had just gotten the receipts from his latest venture and it was breaking records! The King of Smut said his picture, TABOO, would soon out gross Deep Throat! The year was 1982 and people were flocking to pussy cat theatres and he needed a sequel to fill the seats. So instead of Kojak Visits A Whore House, I began writing TABOO the sequel.

Before I started, I screened the first TABOO. It was immediately apparent that the pornographer had ripped off the classic Greek tragedy, Oedipus Rex. But instead of a mother inadvertently making love to her son and then plucking out her eyes in horror, the mother in the TABOO 2 was well aware of who she fucked. Moreover, she kept her eyes wide open during the process so she could see her son’s eleven inch dick. Then, after exhausting every possible sexual act with the kid, she batted her deep brown orbs and went after the rest of the family.

Over all, I thought it was a pretty good script.

And the pornographer neighbor loved my work, but there was a problem.

“What?” I said. “I put in the zip up break where it should be.”

“You did great.” He answered, “But I need a location. I haven’t had time to scout for one. How about we use your house?”

“My house! My girlfriend’s got two teen-aged kids livin’ there.”

“It’s spring break, I’ll send them to Palm Springs . . . on me.”

“I dunno. I’ll ask my girlfriend.”

“There’s an extra two grand if we can use your house.”

I repeated that I’d ask my girlfriend.

Luckily my average looking girlfriend had a more than average sex drive. She was also very curious and on top of that, she was overjoyed to get rid of the kids for a week. A deal was struck. I made my porno. It was a while ago but the rules are the same. Here they are:

Rule #1: Give your porno a professional look. Scratchy iPhone shots of your girlfriend getting hammered by a police dog are a thing of the past. They are now shooting porn in 3D and Cinerama is on the way. So when you shoot your porno use the latest techniques.

Incidentally when I did mine, though it was years ago, it was state of the art. TABOO 2 had the same production values as anything shot at a network, and that’s as it should be because my crew came from Little House on The Prairie.

So put a good crew together. During these uncertain economic times everybody’s moonlighting.

Rule #2: Stagger the start times. Women in high heels with pierced nipples, guys in tight jeans showing their pack, and strings of honey wagons being pulled up to your door; have a way of attracting attention. Always schedule production people first, then cast and make sure that both groups park down the street.

Rule #3: Have moisturizers handy. Male stars have to be ready at a moment’s notice. On TABOO 2, there was always a gaggle of guys playing with themselves while they waited to go on. Of course some dudes use fluffers, but for the most part, keeping dicks stiff was a personal affair. Incidentally, the favorite emolument was Nivea cream, it was best for the glide.— as one of the male porno stars informed me. So, to avoid halting production, be equipped with a lot of the stuff.

Rule #4: No amateurs. Though you have buddies who want to be in the movie, DON’T DO IT! Being a porno star is a calling, a knack, a God given talent. Amateurs come too soon, or don’t come enough or are unable to come at all. Using your friends is a waste of time, money, and your female stars’ patience.

Rule #5: Use very little dialogue. The average porno star can’t handle it. They’re ok at grunts and groans but anything more than “Fuck me in the ass!” is beyond them.

Rule #6: If you have young daughters, don’t film in their rooms. When I made TABOO 2, we shot scenes in my girlfriend’s daughters’ bedrooms and they were horrified when they saw what was performed there. Especially because it all happened under The Osmond Brothers, whose poster was hung over their beds.

Rule #7: Don’t fuck the porno stars. I made that mistake. A buxom brunette seemed to like me—especially after I took the time to coach her through two and a half lines of monosyllabic dialogue. When she finally got the lines straight, she blew me out of gratitude.

Unfortunately, my girlfriend caught us and she raised holy hell and shut the production down. “The King of Smut” was beside himself and never spoke to me again. But worse, he refused to pay me. But he finished the project someplace else and when I got around to watching it, I noted with dismay that he listed my name in the credits. It came up right after the zip up break! And it was s full screen!

The King of Smut had gotten his revenge.

Rule # 8: Don’t use your real name in the credits. You may go on to great things in life. You could solve the debt crisis, come up with the cure for cancer or bring peace to the Middle East—But if your name is associated with a porno you won’t be the person who brought prosperity to America, cured cancer or brokered a peace deal. Instead you’ll be known as the slime ball who made Butt Plug Afternoons or April’s Golden Showers.

Of course if you’re the kind of person who wants to see his name in lights no matter what—make sure your name is at the end of the picture. The audience is more attentive then….they’ll be zipped up.

Watch The Video
My Time With The Great Jack Warden

I’ve been writing for TV for 40 years and I haven’t been impressed with many actors. Nor am I a star fucker—although I’ve tried to have my way with various “starlettes” but I’ve always been unsuccessful.

But I’ve digressed. There actually was one actor that once impressed me. He was the redoubtable, Oscar winning, all-around good guy, Mr. Jack Warden.

I didn’t meet Jack professionally, but we were introduced on a tennis court and soon became buddies. I’ve never met an actor like him. He was without artifice and accessible to everybody, probably because of his background.

Jack was born in humble circumstances in Hoboken, N.J. When he was 18, he was shipped out in the Merchant Marine and spent the next 10 years in the world’s oceans. He once told me there wasn’t a deep sea port on earth in which he hadn’t got “stinkin drunk in.”

Somehow during that rough and tumble time he realized he was made for something other than fighting, drinking and drifting around the world as an able body seaman. He realized he wanted to be an actor, even though he had never even seen a play!

Jack quit the Merchant Marine and took odd jobs around New York City. At one time he was a salesman at Bloomingdales, a Salvation Army Santa, and of course, he worked sporadically as a waiter and cab driver like most actors do. But unlike those want-to-be actors, he clicked right away and started getting small parts that kept getting bigger and bigger.

I know why he was almost immediately successful. He approached acting as he did life—honestly. I mean, who can forget him as the coach in Heaven Can Wait?

But there was more to Jack than appeared on stage. I remember taking a bus with him after his car broke down. His fellow passengers were immediately aware of his presence. There was the usual stifled “ohs and ahs” and sly stares and hard stares, and finally, one of the passengers spoke up. She was a little, old lady with a foul mouth.”What the fuck are you doing here, Jack?” She asked.

“The same thing you are dear,” Jack said, “Ridin’ the bus.”

“But why?” I think she actually said, “But why the fuck are ya doin’ that?”

Jack answered truthfully. “Because I have too many DUI’s and they took away my license.”

“But you should hire a fuckin’ chauffeur.” The old lady said.

Jack replied, “I don’t go in for that fancy fuckin’ stuff.”

And the entire bus, including the driver, broke into applause.

One time, I too applauded Jack in public—or kind of in public. We were at his beach house in Malibu when a contingent of 20 picnickers showed up at his front door— steps from the Pacific Ocean. Jack’s house in The Malibu Colony was patrolled and guarded. It was a safe haven for the movers and shakers and stars of Hollywood. Jack’s then wife, who was termagant of the worst order, went crazy. She got on the phone to the guard shack and demanded that a contingent of rent-a-cop come to her rescue and rid of the offending sight of “50 Mexicans eating tamales in front of my window.”

Jack immediately cancelled that order and he and his harridan of a wife had a terrible fight. I’d never seen Jack this angry, but he won, and that’s when I applauded. The harridan wife then demanded that I leave the house. Jack would have none of that. He said, “My buddy stays right here.”

And his wife said, “It’s either him or me.”

“That’s no contest. He stays and incidentally I’ve invited a few friends for dinner,” said Jack. And with that, he opened the doors to his house and invited all the interloper picnickers inside.

By the way, the tamales were delicious. And shortly after that picnic, Jack filed for divorce.

When Jack was 80, he quit acting and moved to North Carolina and lived with his extraordinarily beautiful and understanding new wife on the beach. I never visited him there, but I’m sure if any stray beach goers camped in front of his beach front door, they were welcomed.

That’s just the kind of a guy he was. Jack died a few years ago and the theatre and movies goers, bus passengers, and beach wanderers are missing a great man.

And so am I.

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