Ryan Mclane
Double Booked Honeymoon Scene 1
Ryan McLane came into the world on September 24, 1982 in Indiana. Six-foot-one and jacked like a goddamn statue, he blew off Butler University basketball offers because the tuition price tag made him laugh. One family trip to LA later and he ditched hoops for volleyball, then at twenty-seven he stepped into porn. Those abs—chiseled lines you could cut glass on—turned into his calling card. He lost his cherry in a brothel. “Don’t recommend it,” he says flat-out. New on set, he got thrown into a bukkake scene inside a sweltering Hollywood loft. “Fifty dudes stroking, waiting their turn to paint this girl’s face. Nobody wanted to go last,” he laughs. The wildest non-sexual thing? Real love—head-over-heels, I’d-die-for-her love that he had once and never again. “Felt stronger than anything,” he shrugs. “Now it feels like the craziest stunt of my life.” His biggest fear? Living forever. If he washed up on a deserted island, he’d want a boat, but he’d settle for “a steady rotation of beautiful women, medical supplies, and enough food. That’s the dream.” He rereads The Fountainhead like scripture—objectivist to the bone—and Names of the Wind, yet La La Land knocked Jerry Maguire off the favorite-movie throne because the soundtrack and city lights hit like déjà vu. Daily fix: call the folks, sketch designs, hammer weights. His parents are still happily married and never flinched when they learned their son shoots porn. “They’re cool with whatever.” Never arrested either. Closest brush with scandal? Tweeting that Vin Scully was overrated. In LA that’s blasphemy.
Ryan McLane came into the world on September 24, 1982 in Indiana. Six-foot-one and jacked like a goddamn statue, he blew off Butler University basketball offers because the tuition price tag made him laugh. One family trip to LA later and he ditched hoops for volleyball, then at twenty-seven he stepped into porn. Those abs—chiseled lines you could cut glass on—turned into his calling card. He lost his cherry in a brothel. “Don’t recommend it,” he says flat-out. New on set, he got thrown into a bukkake scene inside a sweltering Hollywood loft. “Fifty dudes stroking, waiting their turn to paint this girl’s face. Nobody wanted to go last,” he laughs. The wildest non-sexual thing? Real love—head-over-heels, I’d-die-for-her love that he had once and never again. “Felt stronger than anything,” he shrugs. “Now it feels like the craziest stunt of my life.” His biggest fear? Living forever. If he washed up on a deserted island, he’d want a boat, but he’d settle for “a steady rotation of beautiful women, medical supplies, and enough food. That’s the dream.” He rereads The Fountainhead like scripture—objectivist to the bone—and Names of the Wind, yet La La Land knocked Jerry Maguire off the favorite-movie throne because the soundtrack and city lights hit like déjà vu. Daily fix: call the folks, sketch designs, hammer weights. His parents are still happily married and never flinched when they learned their son shoots porn. “They’re cool with whatever.” Never arrested either. Closest brush with scandal? Tweeting that Vin Scully was overrated. In LA that’s blasphemy.