Kayla vs. the Pizza Guy

Another link: Kayla Quinn blog


XO Tanya




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A Brutal Assault

A few weeks ago I was sitting at my desk and dreaming about taking a vacation for a week even though I did not really deserve one. My intentions were not all that serious when I went to Priceline.com and submitted a bid of $45 a night for a 3-star hotel in Miami. I opened another window on my browser and kept working as the Priceline system processed my request. Of course it seemed unlikely that any 3-star hotel would accept such a paltry bid for their accommodations, but I was prepared to pack my bags on the offchance that they did. A few minutes later I checked on the status of my request and was shocked to discover that a nice hotel was willing to give me a room. I made reservations with Southwest.com to use a free plane ticket and a few days later I flew to Florida.

It turned out that a group of law enforcement professionals was holding a convention at my hotel. One evening I fell into a poolside conversation with a detective from Toledo, Ohio who investigated sex crimes. I can't remember how he initially described his job, but a vision popped into my head of him rolling up to a strip club in a paddywagon to arrest a flock of dancers. I have worked at clubs where that has happened. The unbidden memories vanished as he went on to say that he mainly investigated reports of sexual assaults.

"About sixty percent of them turn out to be bogus." he informed me.

"Sixty percent?" I asked, thinking I had not heard him correctly.

He nodded seriously as he registered my surprise. I waited for him to elaborate and he did not do so.

"What do you mean by 'bogus'?" I prodded him. "You mean they have no validity? The supposed victims just make up stories of assaults that never happened?"

He nodded.

"Why would they do that?" I asked with genuine puzzlement.

"Different reasons." he said. "I'll give you an example."

I felt my eyebrows rise in anticipation.

"One woman came in to report a rape. She had a black eye so clearly she had been on the receiving end of some type of abuse. After she told me her whole story I took her back to the scene of the alleged crime. Her version of the events started to break down, many pertinent details were missing. To make the long story short she finally admitted that she had made up all the charges. It turned out that she had paid a male friend $1500 to beat her up and have sex with her. This woman was a nurse so she had known that the police would test her for bodily fluids secreted by the alleged rapist. She went to all this trouble because she and her ex-girlfriend had recently broken up and she wanted to make her ex-girlfriend feel sorry for her."

I sat there in stunned silence and looked at him.

"Are you serious?" I finally said.

He responded affirmatively and went on to tell me about another woman who claimed she had been gangraped by a group of men. She even supplied the address of her attackers. Her story had fallen apart when the detective had arrived at the suspects' house to question them. Later he pieced together the true story which had begun with the phony victim taking her boyfriend's truck to go buy crack. She had engaged in sex with one man at the site of the supposed attack in order to obtain the drugs and had then stayed there for a prolonged period of time. Upon arriving back home the morning after - long after she was due to arrive - she invented the rape story so her boyfriend would not find out about her true activities of the night before.

I was completely aghast yet fascinated. Throughout all my years of experience with drug addicts, drug dealers, golddiggers, pimps, porn shoots, strip clubs, flophouses, ex-convicts, prostitutes, backstabbers, desperate women, angry women, jealous women, homeless women, armed robbers, check forgers, drug mules, and thieves I didn't think I knew of any women who would walk into a police station and falsify an accusation of rape. Why does it seem so mind-blowing to me?

a) Most of the women I know, whether they are good citizens or not, don't want to involve the police in anything.

b) Rape is such a hideous act and you would have to repeatedly tell your false account of the assault and expend precious emotional energy behaving as if you had really felt and experienced it.

The detective and I finished our conversation, but his twisted tales stayed with me. I kept turning them over in my mind. The first shoot I did upon returning to Los Angeles was with Kayla Quinn. It happened that we were doing a scene in which she played a cop and I played a prison inmate. I immediately began thinking of the Toledo detectives's stories and I relayed them to Kayla....


How did my retelling of the noirish stories culminate in a brutal assault on the dressing room floor? Who ultimately became the victim in this disturbing turn of events? Join my site now to read the rest of the story and view the entire Tanya vs. Kayla #3 gallery!



- XXOO Tanya










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Just Another Mike Raffone Production..

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A Cleaner Lifestyle

Women in the adult industry periodically get burnt out on doing some of the work. Most productions with which one becomes involved rarely last for more than a single day. To make a living one finds herself commuting daily to various locations, interacting with a myriad of unfamiliar character on each set, and doing a huge volume of laundry each week. Directors usually do not supply the wardrobe so the actresses bring their own. Last year I got fed up with the driving, the handwashing of lingerie and the personalities of many of those people with whom I was working. I called up my friend Kayla Quinn so she could talk me out of my funk. She didn't.

"You know," Kayla had sighed. "I just need a break from all this too."

I didn't say anything. Nothing but silence emanated from Kayla's end of the line for almost a minute. I felt anxiety begin to well up inside my gut. Kayla normally cheered me up whenever I lost my motivation. On this night her obviously dejected demeanor really bothered me since I felt demoralized already.

"Kayla." I said

She did not answer.

"Kayla?" I asked the dead air.

"Yeah, yeah. I'm here." she responded at last.

"What are we going to do?" I queried in what I hoped was a calm, practical tone of voice. "I mean.. it's not like we can just stop working."

"Yep, I know." she said flatly.

"Well, fuck." I sighed. "Do you feel like dancing?"

"No, I don't feel like dancing." Kayla shot back at me with some vehemence. "I would just like to go a few months without taking my clothes off in a room full of strangers."

In all honesty I felt the same way. Kayla and I agreed to meet for a few drinks and figure out a game plan. An hour later we hooked up at Hank's Bar to kick around ideas. Kayla had brought an LA Weekly newspaper with her. After two drinks she pulled it out and showed me a help wanted ad for a company that supplied "sexy maids" to clean in private homes around Los Angeles.

"No nudity. No dating clientele. $25 an hour." the ad proclaimed.

Kayla and I decided to go for it. Why not? If a customer got out of line we would shove a mop up his asshole. The next day we applied for the jobs and the crusty old dude who owned the company, Lionel, hired us on the spot. He handed us our "uniforms" and told us he'd have a gig for us on the following afternoon. Kayla and I went home and tried on the uniforms. We agreed that we would hang on to them after our stint as housecleaners had ended. The outfits actually fit us really well and looked pretty cute - just perfect for a strip club stage. Lionel called as we were arguing over who got which outfit.

"Gotcha girls a small gig tomorrow near Encino." he informed us over the speakerphone. "This guy's a regular. Treat him right. He's got a small place but he likes to tip the girls good. He won't expect nothing dirty from ya so don't worry. A few of the other girls mentioned that he has some good reefer too."

"Reefer"? Kayla and I looked at each other and rolled our eyes in unison. Neither of us had heard anyone use that term in a long time. Lionel rattled off an address to us that sounded vaguely familiar. I'd been driving to so many porn shoot locations recently that every address sounded familiar. The next day Kayla and I debated about whether we should wear our sexy maid outfits to the job or just change into them when we got there. We decided to show up wearing long coats over the uniforms. After dressing with care Kayla looked at the address and said she knew roughly where it was. We headed out the door for our first day on the new job.

It took us only 20 minutes to locate the correct street. I slowed the car down so we could figure out which building corresponded with the address Lionel had given us. We spotted it and then we both froze. Kayla spoke first:

"This is cameraman Mike Raffone's building, isn't it?" she said slowly.

"Um, yeah." I said.

"What if he sees us?" she demanded. "He'll tell everyone in the industry."

"Fuck." I responded. "I don't think he'll see us. If he does we will just tell him we're going to a shoot or doing a Strip-O-Gram or something. This is our first day on the job for Lionel. We can't screw this up because he will fire us."

Kayla sighed but said nothing as I parked the car.

We alighted from the vehicle and pulled our overcoats around ourselves as we trudged toward the building. Kayla was ducking her head beneath her frilly little French maid's cap.

"Oh, don't worry. You blend right in with the neighborhood." I told her sarcastically.

At the security gate I punched in the code we had been given and a loud buzzing noise indicated that the occupant was ringing us in from his end. We proceeded forward.

"What's the apartment number?" Kayla asked me.

I fumbled with the slip of paper in my hand and tried to decipher my writing. A loud voice interrupted my scrutiny.

"Hey, are you girls the maids? You girls are the maids, right?" a man's voice with a thick East Coast accent called out to us.

I resisted the urge to run back down the cement walkway and I saw Kayla put her hand over her face.

"Hey, you the maids! I'm Mike. Lionel sent you, right?" the man continued exuberantly.

Of course the man was none other than cameraman Mike Raffone himself. He approached us. I looked`away but made no attempt to cover my face. Through the corner of my right eye I saw Mike Raffone stop dead in his tracks. His expression registered disbelief. A brief silence encompassed us all. The chirping of a bird brought me back to reality. I turned to face Mike, to face the inevitable. His eyes had grown as big as silver dollars behind his horn-rmmed glasses.

"Tanya Danielle and Kayla Quinn!" he practically shouted. "You the maids? You girls are the maids?!"

Neither Kayla nor I spoke a word. I knew that Mike could die happy now. Unfortunately he did not look like he was going to die. He looked like he ruled the universe.

"This could be a 'True Hollywood Story' on the E Channel!" Mike guffawed. "They could call it 'A Cleaner Lifestyle: How Two Girls Dreamed of Porn Stardom and Ended Up as Janitors'. The only problem is that you girls were never famous to begin with. Still, it's a tremendous story. Tremendous."

Mike practically waltzed up the stairs that lead to his apartment and waved us inside like we were long-lost relatives. We followed him meekly. Kayla's frilly cap had nearly swallowed up her entire head. I began reminding myself that there is no shame in honest labor and my anger stoked my determination to clean Mike's apartment with a vengeance. I would make Lionel proud.

"I better be able to shine a forensic black light all over this place and not see a single speck of semen when you girls are done!" Mike called out with a joyous cackle.

That comment pushed Kayla over the edge. She tried to hold me accountable for this miserable turn of events. Of course Mike had a camera handy..


Join www.TanyaDanielle.com now to see who triumphed in this battle of angry, disillusioned maids!



- XXOO Tanya








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Fantasy or Nightmare?

A few weeks ago I participated in a fantasy boxing shoot. The director made sure that everyone knew the rules: no punching to the head, no punching below the belt, no headbutting, etc. Of course he had hired models, not athletes, to do the boxing. Most of the models followed the script and made sure everything looked good for the camera. The majority of us understood that we were creating erotic content, not trying to prove our athletic prowess. Inexplicably, one of the women present, Serena, began landing blows to the head and intentionally trying to inflict pain. She pretended all of it was an accident when any of the other models complained about her behavior. Not coincidentally Serena happened to be the least attractive of all the women present. She was balancing such a huge proverbial chip on her shoulder that her upper body always looked kind of hunched over. Each of the other boxers would stand up straight and stick their big breasts out when the camera started rolling. Serena would lower her head like a bull and start breathing heavy. Halfway through the shoot it was my turn to go a round with her. Within one minute she had clocked me in the nose. I stopped the match. Everybody stared at me because it was obvious that I had something to say.

"Serena, you seem to have a lot of unresolved anger." I said calmly.

"No.." she protested. "I'm just trying to make it a good video. I guess you are not tough enough to take it."

"This is fantasy boxing." I informed her. "This is not real. Either something is real or it is not real. There is no such thing as halfway real. I do not live in your world of delusion and it's nearly impossible for me to express my contempt for your stupidity."

Serena was growing red in the face and she began turning away from me.

"Let me introduce you to reality." I continued. "The truth has power so listen up. You are angry because you are overweight and unattractive by conventional standards. You should try to improve yourself instead of bringing your misdirected anger to an erotic video shoot. Maybe you will be able to.."

All of a sudden a fist smashed into the side of my face. I hit the canvas hard and saw stars as I tried to climb back up. Who had hit me?!

"Welcome to reality, bitch." a woman's voice said as a hand grabbed my hair and jerked me to my feet.

I stood to face 5'10 referee Kayla Quinn.

"Nobody but me stops a match in my ring." she snarled. "You keep fighting until the bell rings or until I tell you to stop."

"I don't take orders from anyone!" I screamed at her.

By this point the director was about to have an aneurysm. Kayla and I agreed to finish the shoot and settle our differences after everyone else had gone home for the day. Kayla is one tough bitch. She is not pretending.



Join www.TanyaDanielle.com to see who triumphed in this disturbing fracas!



- XXOO Tanya








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