Although Slain claims to have once made $500 for a scene, those gigs are rare. But Slain's not ashamed of any lack of recognition. "I have no desire to be a porn star," he says. "I'm a rock star who does porn, not the reverse." That he doesn't have a band or a record deal doesn't seem to faze him.
This carefree affectation isn't uncommon among Slain's peers. Jordan Lane, a refugee from Weirton, W.Va., prefers to be called a "midlevel gonzo performer" rather than a mope, although he admits that either term makes him the human equivalent of "a piece of furniture" in the porn business.
Stephen Hill
Herbert Wong
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"I came to Los Angeles to reinvent myself as a writer and underachiever," Lane says. "I can bottom-feed with the best of them." And, so far, he says, porn affords him a living. "You don't have to work hard, but you have to save hard," he says with a kind of poignant bravado.
Mark Kulkis, the head of Kick-Ass Pictures, a company that specializes in specific niche porn such as foot-fetish and gangbang material, says, "We pay $50 for a foot job. And we shoot one a week for the site. There are only so many of those gigs to go around. These guys are hanging on the edge economically."
Pornography producer-director Mike Ramone agrees and offers an explanation for why some men seek out mope work. "They're probably sex addicts," he shrugs.
Ambitious mopes who hope to break out of their niche sometimes come up with gimmicks and catchphrases in a misguided bid to establish an identity and stand out from the pack.
Hill, whose screen name was Steve Driver, used to say his signature was "monster hands." According to set photographer Gia Jordan, Hill "would wear these hands, like, from a Halloween costume. That was his shtick. He'd jack off on the girl with the hands and when he'd come he'd yell, 'Monster hands!' It was ridiculous."
Alana Evans, one of Hill's co-stars in the porn spoof Palin: Erection 2008, says that Hill — despite having a featured role as Barack Obama in the movie — was unlikely to be a breakout star.
"He was one of the new type of guys," Evans says. "He wasn't strong or dominant. He was scared. He struggled in his scenes. I knew he'd never be the next Lexington Steele. He'd rarely talk to the women. He was, like, a total nerd."
Hill was the youngest of four sons born to a black mother and a white father, a software developer who worked on the Space Shuttle launch-control system at the Kennedy Space Center in Florida. Stephen Hill lived with the family until his parents split up. The boy moved to Washington, D.C., and then Maryland with his mother but spent part of every summer in Florida with his father.
The move to D.C. was traumatic for the younger Hill, recalls his father, David Hill, now 68 and retired. "His mother obtained housing in a poor, all-black area," he says. "Stephen was severely mocked at his inner-city school because of his light skin and slight build but mainly because of the fact that he spoke standard English."
To counter the bullying, Hill was enrolled in a martial arts class, where, his father says, "He developed a strong attachment to Japanese culture that remained with him his entire life."
During his junior year in high school, Hill went to stay with his father in Florida. There, he showed an interest in becoming an Air Force pilot and joined the Junior ROTC program. Under the influence of the ROTC, Hill "developed an interest in guns and started talking like a young conservative," his father says.
The elder Hill also noticed bizarre personality traits starting to emerge. "He refused to wear his glasses, believing he could use willpower to improve his vision," David Hill says.
After requiring metal plates and surgery to repair an arm broken during a basketball game, Hill stated a desire to return to Maryland and enter the University of Maryland specifically for its Air Force ROTC program. "I did not discourage him," David Hill says. "But because of his eyesight and the metal plates in his arm, I felt it was unlikely he would be accepted for pilot training."
At the university, Hill was overwhelmed by his classes and did poorly, his father recalls. His main interest was ROTC, through which he had begun to take flight instruction. "Even in that he did not do well," David Hill says. And at the end of his sophomore year, Hill was rejected for officer training with the ROTC.
In 1998, his final year at the university, Hill found himself in serious trouble when, after he asked for extra time to finish a paper for his Math 111 class, his request was refused by the instructor, a graduate student. Hill lost his temper and mentioned that he had a gun. According to The Washington Post, he asked the instructor, "What's more important to you, giving me an A or your life?"
Hill's threat was reported to the administration, and he was picked up by campus police. Before his trial, he underwent a psychological evaluation and was diagnosed with narcissistic personality disorder. At his trial, he admitted threatening his instructor, but claimed he did so only after the instructor solicited oral sex from him, a claim the instructor denied.