Tom Byron, who used to fuck Traci Lords for money and also date her, lives on a nice suburban street in Granada Hills, in the San Fernando Valley. Recently he was directing a scene at his house for the latest installment of Seasoned Players, recognized as "Best MILF Series" at the 2010 Adult Video News Awards.

Nina Hartley was getting into makeup when I showed up. A 50-year-old self-described sex-positive feminist and venerated industry veteran, Hartley was dressed for the shoot in a long black skirt, puffy white top, high heels and Sarah Palin glasses.

Hartley loves musicals, but nothing that's come out in the last few decades–just the classics. She went to high school in Berkeley, at a school with an impressive theater program, but she was too scared to appear before an audience. She did stage crew. Now she speaks at colleges, often at women's centers, where her brand of empowered porn stardom garners enthusiastic applause. She talks to doctors about proper care for sex workers, about the importance of not judging. She says they don't know anything.

We ordered Chinese food. Then Byron and Hartley and the cameraman went to the garage to shoot stills, for web promotion and maybe the cover of the video. This was a low-budget situation, suited for the small-margins era of XTube. A large white sheet was laid out on the ground along one of the walls, and Hartley stood on it and against it, opening and closing her mouth, smiling seductively, pushing her ass out. Sometimes she got on her knees, and she complained that they hurt on the concrete. I stood by the door, terrified that I'd accidentally lean on the garage door opener behind me.

Byron wore a basketball jersey that said "Hustler" on the front and "Flynt" on the back. He had a gold watch on his wrist and a large dragon tattoo on his right bicep. He was down on the floor, on his stomach, taking pictures, giving directions. Hartley took off most of her clothes, revealing black and red lace panties, a garter belt and matching bra. The part of the panties that covered her crotch was detachable, and she removed it, exposing her shaved vagina. Then she screamed and put her hands over her crotch.

"Oh my God," she yelled. "My agent did not tell me about this part!" Then she started laughing, and smiled at me. It was totally convincing. A minute or so later, in a new position, she massaged her fingers into her vagina. "Wakey, wakey," she said. As she stuck her ass out and turned back to face the camera, she and Byron joked about how frustrating it is when the labia won't stay put.

Sean Michaels showed up a few minutes later; he would be doing a scene with Hartley. Michaels is 52, black and Brooklyn-born. Another lifer, a thousand movies between them. He's over six feet, strapping, and he was in a suit and the sort of overcoat that evokes a businessman but wouldn't quite be worn by one. A Yankees helmet sits on his shaved head; he looks 30. When he went over to greet Hartley, they hugged and air kissed on both cheeks, like socialites, not actually making contact between lips and skin. "The last time you fucked me, nine years ago," Hartley said, grinning, "you fucked me in the ass too." Byron took a couple more shots, with Hartley almost naked, and Michaels still wearing his overcoat. Then we went inside and the food arrived.

Michaels went to Boys High School in Brooklyn, before it burned down. He described the industry as "racist" but improving. He said he's lucky he gets to do what he loves. "I get to fuck Nina Hartley," he said, with enthusiasm. He said he has a five-year-old daughter, and that he doesn't get back to the east coast much anymore because he doesn't like to travel, because travel means being away from her.

A friend, Michael Friedman, brought me to the shoot. Along with his theater group, the Civilians, he's working on a play about the industry. The Civilians make reported, nonfiction theater, essentially, and they have been researching for months. Michael said that porn houses are always the same: the bed sheets, the leather couch, the television that's always on, the smell of stale weed. He'd met most of the inspirations for the characters in Boogie Nights, including Rollergirl, who is actually a makeup artist. Sometimes, he said, you're in and out of a shoot in an hour, everyone a professional, and sometimes they drag all day, until everyone is drunk and stoned and finally gets on with it.

Byron, who is 49, still performs, though these days he mostly directs. Last year he was in a remake of Deep Throat, which was meant to be dark. He won an AVN award for that, and he keeps it on his mantle, above the fireplace. He said that he had been banned from the AVNs for three years, but he's vague about the reason. Something about suddenly being a millionaire, and being an asshole because of it. He wants to write a book. His old business partner, Rob Zicari, is doing a year in a prison for obscenity due to his film Forced Entry, which featured simulated rapes. Zicari went on "Frontline" and challenged John Ashcroft to come after him, and Ashcroft did.

We left Byron's house not long after lunch. Things were moving slow, and also Michael said there was a reverse bukkake shoot going on fifteen minutes away that needed to be seen. Michael said that the sex is the least interesting part of all this anyway.

We drove over through a downpour. The shoot was on a traditional set, not a house. A dozen girls in underwear and bras of varying color were in front of the camera. There was also one guy, who was wearing a suit and tie. The girls aren't porn stars, though they want to be. They get called "talent." They're getting $400 for this, someone said, pretty good money since they don't have to have sex.

The director explained the setup: the women were to be guests on a talk show, but the host doesn't believe that reverse bukkake-that is, a girl squirting large amounts of ejaculate on a guy's face-is possible. As the movie progresses, the host learns that he's wrong.

The effect is created using turkey basters. There was a tray of them off to the side of the set. The women, most of whom looked to be about 20, masturbate on camera, and then off camera they shoot water into their vagina, using the baster. Then, again for the camera, they shoot the water onto the host's face. Some of them pee a little, too.

They shot some stills. The women were reaching for the talk show host, standing on and around a ratty old couch, as the host pretended to be trying to get away. A sign above them read "The Len Giny Show," which the director said they had just came up with. "You're grabbing, you're pulling," a guy in a sideways cap told the girls as he took pictures. During the break, he massaged one of the girls' butts when she walked by him, and she giggled.

The girls took off their clothes. All of them are shaved, and most have tattoos. They took direction pretty well, moving to one side or the other of the host. A girl, in an effort to be helpful, notified the director that another girl was being blocked out of the shot.

Earlier, before we'd left Byron's house, Hartley talked about how the young girls today don't know how to suck a dick, how they don't know how to do all sorts of things. It sounded a little bitter when she said it, the veteran's lament, but I believed her. The stars of The Len Giny Show were fragile in their undress, slight and tiny as the men moved around them and the lights shined down. They had no business in this business.

Brian Montopoli is a political reporter for CBSNews.com. He previously worked for Columbia Journalism Review, and has contributed to The New York Times, The Los Angeles Times, Slate, Salon, The Washington Monthly, Washington City Paper and "This American Life." He lives in Brooklyn.