I've spent evenings with male strippers and female hookers for the sake of journalism, but these platonic misadventures were lackluster compared to the day I spent on an L.A. porno set, observing the workplace's daily grind.

I was too cheap to rent a car, so a friend courteously drove me to the unmarked warehouse in the San Fernando Valley. (He's gay, and thus wouldn't normally care about watching hetero porn, but luckily he'll try anything once.)

The producers, whom I promised anonymity, requested that I deliver a Summer's Eve Douche box to the starlet of today's cinematic endeavor. "She already took the enema," explained one of the pornographers helpfully.

They gave me a tour of the massive studio, which housed numerous sets: a bedroom, a bathroom, a dorm room, an executive office, etc. Meanwhile they discussed the ins and outs of their industry: actors and actresses typically film 20 scenes per month; the actors make a fraction of the actresses' incomes; it's essentially a Monday to Friday gig, but on the weekends the actresses sometimes create "privates" with wealthy fans for personal viewing. (And I planned to buy a mint-condition 1963 copy of "X-Men" #1 with my first million dollars ...)

An enormous naked dude strode across the studio, getting himself ready for action. Apparently even fluffer jobs have taken a hit in these tough economic times.

While every red-blooded American man would leap at the opportunity to work in porn, the vast majority of us are unqualified. "You have to be able to get hard on cue," said one of the producers. "You have to be able to f--k for hours." Most first-timers, full of macho arrogance, are embarrassed to realize they can't perform in the presence of onlookers, or can't last two minutes with a woman attractive enough for the industry.

Soon a naked actress sashayed over to meet the masturbating actor. They quickly introduced themselves to each other, and seconds later commenced copulation. Witnessing the scene unfold is a vastly different experience than watching the final product on a screen; it's mesmerizing instead of arousing, surreal instead of sensual, jaw-dropping instead of pants-dropping. You're unable to believe what's transpiring a meter in front of your eyes -- I should've worn a poncho like the audience members at a Gallagher concert -- but you're also unable to avert your eyes.

"Beautiful, just beautiful penetration," the director said, impulsively choreographing the positions: "mish" for missionary, "cow" for cowgirl, and "scissors" for... uh... scissors. The actress wailed and moaned with seeming pleasure while on camera, yet between shots -- with the dude still inside her -- maintained a neutral, businesslike expression. A true thespian.

After thirty enthralling minutes, which became 45 and then 60 (considerably less enthralling) minutes, I had an unlikely epiphany. "I never expected to say this," I told my friend as the actress gurgled on the actor's manhood, freshly withdrawn from her rectum, "but this is boring."

"You feel that way too?" My friend laughed. "I thought it was just because I'm gay!"

Nope. You can only watch two people get it on for so long before it grows tedious. And unsavory.

For example, the producers shared that menstruation is no excuse for skipping work; actresses insert a makeup sponge to hide the blood. (Good luck masturbating ever again!) In slightly less disgusting news, the talent will "cancel the shoot over a yeast infection."

"I hate Vanilla Coke," the actress suddenly shrieked, throwing a plastic soda bottle across the room. And then belching, which was not particularly sexy. "Is there any normal Coke here?"

Just as the carbonated beverage was too vanilla for her, I was too vanilla for this situation. Consenting adults should be able to film whatever they want, and other adults should be able to view the result. You wouldn't eat sausage, however (no pun intended) if you saw the manufacturing process. The depersonalized fantasies that comprise your spank bank should remain exactly that, because the reality? Is sorta gross.

But it's never too late to submit a job application. If you have a couple minutes.

Marty Beckerman has written for Esquire, Playboy, Salon and The Daily Beast.