It was 3 a.m. on Day 5. The temperature inside the warehouse set was 104 degrees. A strobe light had been stuck on “seizure” for an hour. Brock had walked off because he felt “emotionally unsupported.” Trixie was crying in a makeup chair, her fake eyelashes stuck to her cheek like dead butterflies.
“This is insane,” the producer, a nervous man named Goldstein, whispered to me. “We’re three days over schedule. The investors are from Macau. They’re not patient people.” It was 3 a
Rebel had lost his acting career after a public meltdown involving a live llama, a flamethrower, and a children’s charity gala. Blacklisted but not broken, he retreated to the desert to “create art.” The result was Seven Fluffers —a gonzo-style docu-porno-tragicomedy about seven “fluffers” (the off-camera crew members whose job is to keep adult film actors ready for action) who rebel against their director and stage a heist during a live 72-hour porn marathon. A strobe light had been stuck on “seizure” for an hour