Diary of a Porn Star

And blessed are the big of dick for they shall see God.

So decrees the web diary of Jeff Palmer, if not exactly in those words.

Who was he? A video bad boy whose star shot high during the decade that fell to either side of the millennium. A major porn star but also an evangelical Christian. An AIDS activist (he was forthrightly HIV+) but also an advocate of bareback sex, flipping heels over head with joyous abandon in his self-produced videos.

Born again, and many times thereafter, the star of such thuddingly predictable titles as Raw, Hardcore, and Lust, Jeff had something extra: his own fansite. One of the first porn stars to pick up on the importance of branding himself through a blog, he wrote regularly not so much for the fans but because he needed a place to park his staggering, boundless, cosmic love for Jeff Palmer.

In his adorably fractured, screwball English, the Argentine-born performer would praise Jesus in the most hallucinogenic terms then segue into a breathless narrative about who he just picked up when he went down to get the mail. No detail was spared as we learned what they did, how many times they did it and who was bigger than whom.

Having seen the Falcon studio pictures of Jeff, those of us who were his constant readers knew that in such a contest he usually came up on top, if only figuratively, being a sort of Carmen Miranda in the body of Ferdinand the Bull. Sex videos, always formulaic affairs, never came close to capturing the Wild & Wacky Jeff Palmer Experience. Luckily it was just a click away, in his web diary, where his soul would be bared, then magnified, then judged beautiful. Each week, every week.

“i lost my mind ” Jeff confides to his diary after a quickie he describes with the exclamation “oink.” “…and it’s just fine with me cause serving Jesus even in the most strangest ways known for humans is what I live for.”

“Jesus Christ is my eternal boyfriend, the best one, the perfect one, the alfa and omega of all.”

Innocent of punctuation, not a period in sight, everything in hunt-and-peck lower case, each diary excerpt contains at least one gem of divine election:

“after fucking with this Aussie guy all night long,” we helplessly, compulsively read, “he convinced me to change my hairstyle beside I was already fucking sick of the same shaggy one, so I graved this pair of scissors and cut-ted my hair really short, and I wonder why didn’t I do it before, that much I like it, and so the guys at Beige, the only gay club I like going out to here in Los Angeles, mmm! at some point I was making out with my tall huge black guy with the biggest lips and penis i had in a long time, but i discovered after wards that he already have a boyfriend so I left.” With unsinkable positivity, he consoles himself: “total mental incapacitate I would have be to not admit in public that Jesus Christ is my eternal boyfriend, the best one, the perfect one, the alfa and omega of all.”