What It's Like to Be the Only Girl on the "Girls Gone Wild" Crew

I should've said, "RUN!" but instead I said, "Would you like something to drink?"

by Courtney Kocak

I wake with a start to the sound of a girl's voice. Though I can't immediately place it, I have the sensation that it's vaguely familiar. Her nervous laughter peppers the conversation; she's got a handful of brazen retorts, though they all fall flat.  

I rub my groggy eyes, pull back the curtain, and roll out of my bus bunk, stumbling eight feet through the kitchen/dining room/lounge, closer and closer to the sound, until I almost bang my head into a big screen TV.

My eyes search the screen as things come into focus, but I don't see a face right away – I see a vagina, and then a delicate hand thrusting a dildo into it. On one of the fingers is a ring. Suddenly, I remember whom the voice belongs to: the naïve blonde I met the night before, the poor man's Kirsten Dunst who seemed to think that a threesome with her two best friends would make her at least as famous as her Doppelganger. The one (like many others) who didn't even get paid.

The only way to realize that you're a much bigger prude than your parents could hope for is to get a job selling tank tops on a Girls Gone Wild tour.

I know because at age 21 I stuffed my naïve invincibility into a rolling suitcase and hopped on a plane to meet up with a GGW bus where I would make my brief foray into the soft-core porn industry. I didn't do any naked stuff myself; in fact, I'd say I wound up more uncomfortable in my own skin.

I'd recently moved to L.A. to be an actress, and though, like many before me, I thought Hollywood would be clamoring to meet me – SURPRISE! – they weren't.

Amid the drudgery of my bottom-of-the-barrel temp gigs, I got a call from Girls Gone Wild. They wanted to meet with me about my 'Merch Girl' submission. I scurried down to their office in Santa Monica where the "interview" was basically one of the head honchos making his introduction spiel.

Him: Hi, I used to be VP of Online Jizz at Hustler and now I'm here at GGW in charge of the Hand Job Infomercial silo. I make a looootta money doing this.

Me: Sucking in my stomach.

Him: So basically the most important part of your job is to make the girls feel comfortable. If a girl's waiting and you're on the bus, get her a drink. Really just having another girl around makes everyone more comfortable.

Me: Laughing at whatever he said.

Him: And you're cool with working in Canada without a work permit? Because we don't really have time to get that straightened out.

Me: Oh yeah. Totally, totally cool.

I would have said anything to get a job. Any job.

They wanted me to board a flight to Vancouver the next day. So I packed up my scale and a wad of clothes and got on the plane. I was broke and I could not wrap my not-yet-fully-developed brain around how to get started in L.A., so I felt like running away. I hadn't considered the consequences of where I was running, though. I was 21; I thought I was a badass, made of metal. I'd fucked a few dudes, done some drugs, and worked in several restaurants—what can you possibly show me that I haven't already seen?

Anytime you ask yourself that question and you're not on the front lines of a war, you need to stop and look around because you are in over your head—and it's at least partly your own doing.

The first night I was introduced to the outrageously branded bus, then, in an attempt to live up to the hype, I squeezed into some GGW short-shorts, my rumpus poised to rip the ass-seam with one wrong move.

I tottered into the club on the heels of one of our cameramen and was instantly greeted with a crude display of idolatry that I would see replicated time and again throughout the tour. A beer-gut-laden forty-something came running up to us, dragging his pregnant wife behind him. He was a huge fan. Eager for an invitation onto the bus, he dropped to his knees and started fingering and performing oral sex on his wife.
He raved, "She's wonderful. She even lets me fuck her in the ass!"

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