Sex on Entourage

Little known fact: In sex scenes, actresses wear a patch over their naughty bits. It's to prevent that pesky penis from actually getting where it's pretending to go.

For added protection the actor wears what is known in the industry as a "cock sock." Picture those half-pantyhose your grandmother wears that bunch up around her ankles, but with a rubber band at the base of the cock. Now throw in some dry ice, crank up the slow jams, and you got yourself a bonafide Hollywood love scene. In 2004, I engaged in this most sacred and strange rite of passage on the set of a new show called Entourage.

I had plenty of preparation for the role. While living in New York, I did a stint as Kim Cattrell's body double on Sex & The City. I posed nude for French Vogue. Actually I had a shirt on, just no bottoms. Kind of like a slutty Winnie the Pooh.

Me and my epidermis were making a name for ourselves, so we packed up and moved west. Fresh upon arrival, I booked a role as a stripper on Entourage. Stripping off my clothes came somewhat naturally, and my abilities were not lost on the show's star, Adrian Grenier -- for his was a discerning eye.

"That girl's awesome," I later found out Adrian remarked to producers. "We should have her back." Translation: "I would like to have sex with her."

And they did have me back, two episodes later, for the final show of Season 1. My character was the "The Good-Bye Girl": anonymous ass number #4 in a seemingly endless parade of booty Vince must bid farewell to at summer's dawn.

I didn't find out that this was my role until I was in my trailer and the wardrobe girl handed me nothing but a palm-sized adhesive patch. "What is this, one of those things to quit smoking?" I asked.

"No, you put it over your crotch," the wardrobe girl said. "For your sex scene with Vince."

Ah, the old baptism by fire.

"Ten minutes until show time. Have your lines memorized."

My lines? On the end table next to the couch, I saw a skimpy script. The dialogue corresponded perfectly with my wardrobe.

A few moments later, I was led to the set of a bedroom. It was supposed to be my bedroom; only this version of myself was much wealthier and a lot less sloppy. Adrian awaited me, already in my bed. How presumptuous.

He was mid-discussion with the director, a tiny man with a chin beard. "No, It has to be reverse cowgirl," my co-star emphatically explained. "That's the joke. I tell E I'm just coming up for a minute, but the girl is such a sex freak, I wind up fucking her for two hours."

"Yeah, good idea," the director agreed nonchalantly, as if they weren't discussing the fate of my genitals.


At this point I was a stranger to reverse cowgirl but I knew who John Wayne was so I could make an educated guess as to its definition. I did the math: Cows+ Girls + Reverse = Close my eyes and hope for the best.

"Positions, people," the director bellowed. Hmmmm. If Adrian's the cow and I'm the girl... My mind continued to calculate as I assessed the naked man in my bed.

"Hop on," Adrian said, gesturing to his thighs.

"Is this seat taken?" I joked as I climbed aboard.

It was about at this point I realized something about 'reverse cowgirl.' One, it should not be done on a brightly lit film set. It should be done at night, with the lights very dim. Or better yet, completely off. And two, watching this with my parents is going to suck. I say this because in that position, there was only going to be one area for Vinnie Chase to focus on. Kind of a bull's eye, if you will. A bull's eye I'm generally not comfortable revealing to anyone, let alone a virtual stranger.

I didn't have time to dwell on this unfortunate fact, as a make-up girl was charging toward me with a spray bottle. "You guys have been at it along time so you have to look sweaty," she explained as she supersoaked me.

"And action."

In this case, "action" signified the start of furious fake humping. "The good-bye girl" would hump Vincent Chase for a full forty seconds before grunting the words: "I've never met anyone that could fuck this long."

To which he would earnestly reply: "I'm training for this movie."

And I would enthuse, "It's gonna be a great fuckin' movie."

That's right, folks. It was multitasking. I had to maintain the furious hump while delivering my lines. Thankfully I was trained in method acting, like Robert Deniro in Raging Bull, minus the carbo-loading.

By the third take, ol' Vince was getting into his role, and he began digging his hands into my behind, forcibly guiding my hips. By the fourth take, we were so committed to the performance my patch almost came off. The thrusting became so vigorous the faux sweat was replaced by the real thing and the moaning took on a lilt of sincerity.

"Cut," the director interrupted.

Cock block. It was a technical issue, camera focus or something like that. But Vince had some acting notes for me. "I don't want to give you a line read or anything," he began. "But maybe say it like this: 'It's gonna be a GREAT fuckin' movie.' Hit 'great' more."

Hit great more. Ok, Vince, this one's for you.

"Action!"

"It's gonna be a GREAT fuckin' movie."

Nice. Thrusting, humping, groaning, moaning, and "Checking the gate....that's a wrap!"

The actual scene took an hour to shoot. When it was over, a production assistant ran to shield me with a robe, and the director approached the bed, shook my hand and said, "I have tremendous respect for both of you."

For what, my willingness to show my junk or the startling realism with which I delivered the line "I've never met anyone that can fuck this long!"?

Whatever the case, Adrian seemed to share in this admiration, and we went out that night. I'm not gonna tell you what happened, but let's just say when you're off the patch, it makes it a whole lot easier to smoke.