"There's a certain kind of uniquely American girl," great American gonzo writer and horndog Terry Southern once said, "who comes from the Midwest to Greenwich Village—cute as a button, pert derriere, full wet lips, nips in eternal distension, etc., etc.—and so full of compassion she'll cry at card tricks if you tell her they're sad." Ashley Blue is not one of these girls. Cute as the aforementioned button, certainly, culo tight, no doubt, lips full, indeed, nips often erect, yes, yes, of course. But wet behind the ears (not around the mouth)? Green? No, Blue. She's nobody's sucker—OK, I take that back—nobody's naïf. A derriere-kicker in her own right, Ashley possesses the book-clutching, volleyball-playing bod and sassy-yet-pliant personality of a starlet (as opposed to the literally fantastic looks and cautiously aloof temperament of the superstar) coupled with a scene-stealing, effervescent tomboy 'tude. Also, she lives in L.A., not Greenwich Village.

Porn acting gets a bad rap ("Yo, you hear that orgasm?/More like a leg spasm!" for inst.), and fair enough: These ladies would rather fuck on camera than wait tables and pay off Tisch loans. Still, we call even the most transparent sitcom con-jobs "acting" and dismiss sex portrayal as either self-evidently "real" or, usually in the case of female O, "faked." What lies in-between—a woman, transmuting feeling into compelling performance—offers a unique interpretive challenge. In other words, we can never be sure if a lady really means it when she says, "Mmm, that tastes good!" after ass-to-mouth. (I assume, actually, that it doesn’t taste like much at all, considering the industry’s high hygiene standards.) Since skin flicks were once known as blue movies, Ms. Blue has essentially crowned herself Ms. Porno. Indeed, an appetite for both willful aggression and cheerful submission make her the exception that proves porn's conflicted rules. ("#1: Do no harm. #2: Put an 11-inch schlong in her butt.")

Anyway, I could go on about Ashley's persona till blue in the face, but better you should blush at description of her actual, ass-cheek-reddening sex acts. In the otherwise average Down the Hatch #9 (Diabolic), Ashley's handsome boyfriend Trent explains how he got into the porn biz. "It helps to have a girl," he says, a little sheepishly, leading us through a door. "And if you can find a girl who can do this . . . " He trails off, but the scene speaks for itself: Ashley kneels on the concrete floor of an empty warehouse, deep-throating three large men as if it might earn her an Oscar. "What are you doing?" she flirts, looking back at him. "You'd better get in line!" Sound familiar? Well, he's not being ordered to get popcorn before the movie starts.

Ashley starts off the scene in a candy-striped dress, which falls tautly across her just-past-baby-fat proportions: small, pointy breasts; perfect thighs and rear. Her brown, shoulder-length hair is always parted in the middle, and her face morphs adorably from wide-eyed and grinning to squinty and scowling. She is so focused on the work in hand that she doesn't immediately realize that someone's trying to pull off her dress, though when one guy reels from an especially deep dive, she expends a precious breath to say, "I got you!" and tug on his cock (he probably should’ve palmed the back of her head like everyone else). When Trent finally gets his turn, he forces her nose to his pubes, pulls her hair, and gently slaps her face. In the course of a whirlwind of d.t., rev. c.g., doggy d.p., a-to-m, upside-down b.j., and a three-dick face-slap ("Now put one in my mouth!"), much of it owing to her b.f., Ashley swallows—as in "down the hatch"—six c.s.'s, asking, like Oliver Twist, to "have some more, please. . . . I’m hungry, er, thirsty!"

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The cover of the sublime Girlvert #2 (JM) shows Ashley—in a pink tank-top, denim micro-shorts, thigh-highs rolled down to just above the knees, and chunky black Mary Janes—bent over a topless schoolgirl, holding the poor thing in a head-lock and jerking on her left pigtail. The movie establishes its vaguely Oedipal theme right away, with Ashley recording a video-message to her mother. "Hi mom," she sneers, holding a cigarette. "You make me so mad, I wanna punch you in the face!" She then rushes out to boyfriend Trent's truck, which waits outside her suburban house. "Let's get some pork rinds," he suggests. "And fucking beer!" shouts Ashley, apparently still thirsty. On the way, they pick up the schoolgirl, Julie, a thick little number who plays shy quite well. Back at the house with 22s and skins, Trent stops Julie as she leaves the bathroom, pops his boyhood out, and tries to force her lips around it. Cut to Ashley, on the phone with mom in her parents' bedroom. "My brother's a fucking fag because of you! Gotta go, love you, bye!"

Julie runs to tell Ashley about Trent's attempted sodomy, igniting a hot little wrestling match that results, natch, in Julie's violation via strap-on and built-in, culminating in a cumshot onto Ashley's shoe, planted on her schoolmate's face. (Choice excerpts—Ashley: "Say something!" Julie: "Fuck you!" Ashley: "Say something else!"; Julie: "Your girlfriend is mean!" Trent: "Shut up and suck my dick!") Ashley goes on to hire four whores (three male, the other a ravishing blond woman), and later antagonize a beautiful model at some weird mansion. In the latter scene, to the delight of some guy and his biker bodyguard, she savages said model (some two heads taller than herself) for wanting coke ("I hate coke. I hate models. . . . She's a coke whore!"), slapping her upside the head, and then crushing pork rinds against her own thonged ass and trying to force them into the outraged woman’s delicate mouth. What's more uniquely American than that?

Diabolic, 21707 Nordoff Street, Chatsworth, CA 91311,

JM, 21111 Osborne Avenue, Canoga, CA 91304,

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