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Porn Star Marcus London's Fascinating Quest to Be the King of 'Squirt'

The porn mogul has set the world record for making women ejaculate, and his new squirt watch could teach the world how to perfect his technique.

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“The music takes away that dirtyfilthy feeling. It helps describe what the character is feeling.”

We are watching another guy fuck Marcus’s wife.

“Imagine 'The Notebook' without music!” (I cannot.)

Marcus is keen to give me a tour of the two-story ranch he shares with his wife and porn actors Tommy Gunn and Tony DeSergio. Today, though, the house is being used as a porn set: the crew is preparing to film lesbian porn and are just waiting for their director to appear.

We venture into the bright, cold California afternoon. Out at the workshed, Tony DeSergio is hammering away, building a confessional for the gay porn that is being shot at the house next week. Tony is the taller, leaner, sweeter counterpart to Marcus. He’s the roommate that cooks. He too is a porn veteran, also clad in black workout gear, and also covered in swollen musculature and ropey veins as thick as milkshake straws. As I watch him laying out wood for the frame, I note the tell-tale lawn of uniform stubble that confirms he shaves his arms. Behind us is a shed filled with homemade "Spartacus" props.

Wooden shields with big, round metal nipples in the center, heavy metal swords, a formidable gladiator helmet, and some beautiful leatherwork that they had custom made for the film line the walls of the congested storage room. Marcus knows the story, the work hours, the usage of every item in that shed, and those details and memories flicker across his face each time he finds something new to show me. He’s most proud of the helmet, a hulking and weighty piece of metalwork. There is no way I could wear this thing for any significant length of time. I am impressed.

After my brief tour, we settle on the patio with four Shih Tzu dogs and talk about Marcus for another hour or two, beginning with a description of his ideal film:

“My perfect analogy of my perfect movie is James Bond with sex.” We go over his work history. After starting out working in his father’s pub, Marcus soon progressed to dancing in his skivvies before moving on to fucking ladies on camera for dollars. He speaks with pride about managing London strip clubs with a team of what he describes as “scary mobster goons with guns” as his club security.

After the interview, Marcus drives me and Tony to an Italian restaurant for lunch. When Tony has finished interrogating the cashier on the fresh-or-frozen status of the food (everything is frozen), the duo discuss the logistics of the confessional they are building. They can’t agree whether or not to use wood paneling or to fake it with fabric. This conversation will recur like a leitmotif for the entirety of my stay.

When the food arrives without silverware and the pizza without plates, feathers are ruffled and Marcus sends me to get plates from the kitchen. The silverware and plates are self-serve by the napkins, straws, and soda machine but, in the interest of keeping things peaceable for now, I get them anyway. Marcus asks what publication I write for and what kind of things I write about. I realize he has invited a total stranger to follow him around for days—and to stay in his house— without even a basic Google search. I give him my job title and mention that I cover infectious diseases when the need arises. Naturally, he wants to talk about Ebola.

“How can a virus hide from people?”

Fortunately, the conversation quickly turns back to gym routines and nutrition. Marcus swears that carbs are not a bad thing, but insists that meat is the enemy. He says he has dropped 15 pounds in a week just by going vegetarian. Without meat, he doesn’t get sleepy after meals. Without meat, he feels more clear-headed. I think he used the term “meat bloat.” Tony does not pipe in during this portion of our talk, instead poking his fork at the once-frozen meatballs that sit thick and uneaten on a sticky nest of spaghetti.

 
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