I was on the sets of “American Bukkake 11” and “American Bukkake 13.” At one point, both would be deemed obscene—in the first case, by the Los Angeles Police Department; in the second case, by the Department of Justice.

I found the experience of being there more odd than obscene. The men were there for many different reasons. They were lonely. They were horny. This was their fantasy. They wanted to be porn stars. They were fresh out of jail. They were social outcasts. They longed to be somebody, if only for a few minutes.

Afterwards, one polite young man in his twenties explained to me why he had taken Powers up on this opportunity to jerk off onto the face of a young woman whom he had never met before: “I'm not involved with anyone right now.”

They were desperate men who had congregated on a barren soundstage in North Hollywood, stripped to their underpants with their faces hidden behind bandanas, all in the hopes of a fleeting chance at intimacy with a young, attractive, naked woman who would in the real world—they knew in all likelihood—never speak to them, much less allow any of them to come on her face, were she not being paid to be there.

Porn is pure fantasy, a product that is made, for the most part, by men for men. This was but one facet of what the market demanded. Was it weird? Sure. Was it human? You bet. Was what I saw in the Valley obscene? That’s hard to say. Twelve years after the first day I set foot in the Valley, I’ve come to understand that porn is a funhouse mirror reflecting whatever we want to see in it.

If people didn’t want it, it wouldn’t be made.

Ultimately, pornography is a slave to supply and demand. If Porn Valley is America’s dream factory, it bears keeping in mind that its dreams are all yours.