"Have you ever thought about writing a porno?"

At first, I was fairly sure that Tim was joking. He had a healthy sense of humor about the screenwriting trade, of which we were both would-be members. When our prospects of finding meaningful employment seemed particularly bleak (which was invariably), we would often joke about giving it all up and selling out to the porn industry. For some reason, we always found this terribly amusing, and in a way, strangely comforting. I suppose the inherently ridiculous concept of peddling smut for a living made the shadow of poverty seem a little less terrifying.

"Well sure," I said, with a mocking grin. "It’s why I moved to LA."

Tim didn’t return my smile. He just peered at me with a somber expression and extinguished his cigarette into a plate of untouched eggs, already piled high with butts.

We were sitting in a mostly empty coffee shop in West Hollywood. It had been Tim’s idea to meet here, and judging by the urgency in his voice when he’d called, I assumed it was important. Since our days as struggling writers in Chicago, we’d promised that if either of us made it, we would find a way to share the wealth. Although I’d only been in Los Angeles for a few weeks, Tim had lived here for almost two years, and thus had a considerable head start on me. I suppose I thought he would have something substantial to offer me by now. If not a real career opportunity than at least an insider tip. Something to get me started. I certainly expected more from him than sniggering remarks about porn.

"I’m serious," he said. "It’s not as bad as it sounds. The money’s pretty good. And god knows, it’s better than a day job."

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. One of my dearest friends was actually advising me to do the unspeakable, to venture into the darkest underbelly of Hollywood. I always considered porn to be the final destination for teenage runaways and frustrated young starlets with dreams bigger than their talents. I’d never considered that a writer might fall under the oily grasp of pornographers. It just didn’t happen that way. A broke writer may turn to journalism or even, god forbid, advertising. But never porn.

"Are you actually considering this?" I asked.

"Oh, I’m not considering," he said, a smile finally finding its way to his face. "I’ve already done it."

He told me the whole ugly story. It began when he’d gone to the Sundance film festival with hopes of landing a film deal. After passing out his business card to anybody even vaguely associated with a major studio, it looked as if he would be leaving empty handed. But on his last night in town, he attended an after-hours party, where a friend of a friend of a friend introduced him to a porn director. A few hundred cocktails later, his judgment skills adequately impaired, he’d been hired to write his first feature length screenplay.

"I finished it in one afternoon," he said. "Twenty pages, five hundred bucks. It’s the best money I’ve ever made."