Again, this disclaimer. This post contains porn actresses and golf. Be warned. If either offends you, turn back now.

We’d played the charity golf tourney, scored well despite the distractions—all of which were detailed in Part 1 of this tale. Next came the second and third acts of the event. Cocktails and a silent auction to be followed by a sit-down dinner, a live auction, and finally, the distribution of silly trophies.

I’ll pick up in Act Two, the silent auction. And no, it wasn’t what you’d expect.

There were no cornucopia-like gift baskets filled with adult DVDs or gift certificates to strip clubs or local massage parlors. But neither were there the kind of items golfers craved, such as package trips to popular golf resorts like Pebble Beach or brand-name golf equipment or custom club-fitting or home electronics—you know, the kind of items golfers and guys like to bid on. Instead, we were asked to bid on tickets to Michael Bolton and Olivia Newton-John concerts, unlimited nail salon treatments, Sunday brunch for four at Sizzler, and on and on and on. Sure, it was for charity and yes these items were generously gifted by someone. But nearly nobody was inspired to write down a bid.

An hour in, hardly a bid sheet had ink on it and copious amounts of booze had been served to a net negative gain. In hopes of stirring up business, the auction deadline kept getting extended. Stomachs were grumbling. Attrition was beginning to take place as men found themselves called home for dinner. Two hours gone and there were still hardly any signers.

Feeling strung along, and calculating that the pace of the event would leave me getting home much later than anticipated, I floated the idea of making a clean and sober exit.

“Stay,” my host begged. “If we won this thing it was because of you. Like you to be around to collect the hardware.”

Recalling that my kind and polite host had earlier confessed he’d never won a golf event, I switched gears and settled in for the rest of the ride.

And oh, what a ride it was.

After two and a half hours of nobody bidding on the silent auction baskets, the doors to the dining room rolled open and roughly half of the golfers who were left found seats, grabbed their plates, and headed to the hot dinner buffet. As we filled our stomachs with something other than booze and water crackers, the entertainment portion of the evening began. Our appointed MC was a comedienne who I could best describe as a Wanda Sykes wannabe. Her act was black and angry. She wasn’t without talent, jokes, or timing. I could actually imagine her schtick going over well in a late night, comedy club setting where an audience was lubed and ripe for laughs. But an audience of cranky, hungry, white, suburban golfers might not have been her target demo.

The lady comic’s jokes-slash-insults landed worse than flat. Her tack was more like slaps in all our faces, hoping her aggressive tone might snap us all out of our post-tourney stupor.

“Get to the prizes,” someone heckled.

A tournament organizer whispered in the lady comic’s ear and presto-change-o…

“Y’all ain’t laughin’ at my jokes,” she tried to save, “So how about we auction some expensive shit off?”

The mood, though, had so been soured that when high-dollar charity items such as trips to Hawaii and courtside Lakers seats came up for bid, they were selling for less than half their true dollar value. A rare case of wine was next in line—valued at ten thousand dollars – and the high bid seemed to stall at two thousand.

“How about you back there?” pressed the lady comic, pointing at a man standing at the back of the room. “You holdin’ a glass of wine. How about a bid for five thousand?”

“Already donated ten thousand to this lousy event,” growled the targeted man, “How ‘bout I bid five thousand and you shut the hell up?”

It would only get uglier.

Enter Sunny Leone. Who is she? Well, before her shift to Bollywood superstardom, the actress from Toronto was Vivid Entertainment’s top adult performer and one of the most popular porn actresses on the planet earth. Eye-shatteringly gorgeous, the raven-haired vixen was introduced and handed the microphone. With a voice that sounded far more timid than her film credits would suggest, she sweetly opened an offering to take a picture with the winner and personally autograph it.

Starting bid would be one thousand dollars.

Of the roughly sixty or so men left in the room, not a single hand was raised.

“Oh, come on,” urged the lady comic. “Who don’t wanna picture with sweet Sunny? How about we start at five hundred?”

Still, no takers. The porn queen, who some might think was beyond embarrassment, appeared increasingly uncomfortable.

“How ‘bout this?” offered the lady comic. “Two-fifty starting bid. And Miss Sunny will give you a picture and a kiss on the cheek?”

Unfortunately for me, I could see where this was tragically headed. Most of the men left in the room were married. As much as some might’ve enjoyed a moment, a cheek kiss, and an autographed photo with a bona fide porn queen, leaving the premises with any evidence would’ve been downright stupid.

Once again, not a single man raised a hand. The chagrin on Sunny’s face was palpable.

“Surely somebody’s willin’ to pay somethin’ for Miss Sunny?” she scolded the men in the room. “Hell. Gimme two hundred dollars and I’m sure she’ll throw in a blow job!”

Boom. That was the sound of the evening hitting rock bottom.

What might’ve been a funny bit at a comedy club – or in this retelling of the actual event – was, in fact, a horrible embarrassment. Whatever you might think of porn actors, they are human beings and deserve to be treated with dignity. Poor Sunny Leone, a huge star in her own adult universe, had kindly offered a fan photo for auction so the money might benefit the battered women’s shelter. Instead, the day, the poorly managed event, and finally that awful lady comic had managed to humiliate the poor young woman in the most derisive of ways.

Mustering her courage, Sunny thanked us all, smiled, and exited with her chin up.

As promised, I stuck around to the bitter end. My host took home his first place trophy. And me? I shook my head all the way home. Wow, I kept saying to myself. That just happened?

Yeah, Doug. It did.

Dig the blog? Then buy THE SMOKING GUN, my first published collection of my best, most entertaining and illuminating posts.

The Smoking Gun

The Smoking Gun

ASIN: 1440347247
ISBN: 9781440347245
What do you know, really? Sure. Having enough talent to act, direct, or write a screenplay is one set of skills. But navigating both the main streets and back alleys of Hollywood cannot be done with Gps. Ride shotgun with screenwriting and producing veteran Doug Richardson as he skillfully--yet so amusingly--lives, dies, survives, and thrives in the entertainment trenches. The Smoking Gun is more than a collection of true Hollywood stories, box office success and jaw-dropping failures. It's a guided tour behind the curtain of an industry that is equal parts bright lights, backstabbing, and double-dealing. Buckle up, step into your steel jockstrap, and get ready to do battle in the carnival funhouse otherwise known as showbiz.
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About the Book

What do you know, really?

Sure. Having enough talent to act, direct, or write a screenplay is one set of skills. But navigating both the main streets and back alleys of Hollywood cannot be done with GPS. Ride shotgun with screenwriting and producing veteran Doug Richardson as he skillfully – yet so amusingly – lives, dies, survives, and thrives in the entertainment trenches.

The Smoking Gun is more than a collection of true Hollywood stories, box office success and jaw-dropping failures. It’s a guided tour behind the curtain of an industry that is equal parts bright lights, backstabbing, and double-dealing. Buckle up, step into your steel jockstrap, and get ready to do battle in the carnival funhouse otherwise known as showbiz.

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Doug Richardson
Doug Richardson
Author and screenwriter. Books: THE LUCKY DEY THRILLERS: BLOOD MONEY, 99 PERCENT KILL, AND REAPER, THE SAFETY EXPERT, AND THE SMOKING GUN. Movies: HOSTAGE, BAD BOYS, DIE HARD 2.