Happy Indigenous People’s Weekend, Caftaners! (Yes, I am that tiresomely “woke” person who calls it that instead of it nodding to a certain long-ago Italian.) Truth be told, I’m feeling a bit sleepy before bed, so, once again, I’m going to jump right into this week’s chat—which started somewhat monosyllabically but I think deepened from there—with entrepreneur Frankie Valenti, whom many of you over the age of roughly 40 may remember as Johnny Hazzard, that tatted, lean-muscled, non-steroidal sk*ter-boy vibe star of post-Y2K, porn, mainly under the label of Chi Chi LaRue, (whom I interviewed a few years back.) In our world, especially the pre-Only Fans, pre-Netflix-business model world, porn stars meant a lot to us, so I’m always delighted when I see that porn actors have gone on to a happy second chapter rather than ruin and early demise. And I’m happy to report that it appears that’s what happened to Frankie, a nice Italian/Irish boy from Cleveland. But not without struggle first. So read on!
I will aim to have a new Caftan next week but cannot guarantee because I have to go up to the Boston area for a week, maybe two. But I’ll do my best. Meantime, folks, please, if I continue to deliver for you, consider becoming a paid subscriber. It means so much to me and this project.
And now we’ll delve into the porn life, death and rebirth of a certain Ptown-based clammer, artisan and fledgling yogurt maker named Frankie Valenti.
Frankie, thank you for Caftan chatting with me! So, you live in Ptown, correct?
Half the year. I used to live in Ft. Lauderdale the other half of the year, but as of this past May, three of my best friends and I bought a house and a business in Whitefield, Maine, about an hour north of Portland. It’s called Swallowtail, a yogurt maker that this old hippie couple started about 22 years ago. And we bought it.
Oh yes, I saw you making yogurt on your Instagram. Are you going to move full-time to Maine?
No.
Are you going to spend late spring, summer and early fall in Ptown and the rest in Maine?
That is the plan but when you live in a place like Ptown you have to be very mobile and flexible.
Because you don’t have a steady place there?
No. I have a place here I’ve been the entire time. But when Ptown closes down, you have to find something else to do.
People do stay in Ptown through the winter but I’ve heard it can be kind of grim. Have you ever stayed through?
Last winter was the first time in 26 years I spent an entire winter season here.
What was it like?
You see the dark side. You hear about it, but if you’ve never spent a winter here and never had to— I hate to say this, but I’m lucky. I saved a lot and didn’t have to switch places to live or find a second job. I just cruised on my savings. It wasn’t as dark as I think most people experience this place to be. If you don’t find a job here or elsewhere, you cruise on unemployment. It lends itself to a lot of drinking and drugs.
I’ve heard it said for years that if you’re in Ptown in the winter, you’re in the drug crowd or the AA crowd, and both are a way of having a community in the dead of winter. But I’ve also heard it can be cozy, with people having potluck dinners. Did you experience that?
No, because I worked at a bar all summer long and I’m kind of an introverted extrovert. So I cherish time being alone. I don’t need to be around people to feel alive. I don’t want the potluck side. I enjoyed the solitude.
What was a typical day like?
I’m lucky that I have a lot of projects around the house. I don’t have a very small studio apartment. I live in a house with a yard and things to do. I made projects for myself, like making a mess just to clean it up. Not like throw strawberry puree on the floor just to clean it up, but, like, “This needs shelves. And oh, now it needs lighting.”
You find shit to do.
Yeah.
Okay. And how old are you now, Frankie?
I think I’m 47.
[I laugh] You think?
Yeah.
You’re really not sure?
It’s either 47 or 48.
How do you not know your birthday?
Well, you know, who pays attention after 40?
Well—I do. I’m 56.
Okay.
So you really don’t know?
I mean, I was born in 1977. So on the spot, I can’t really tell you whether I’m 47 or 48.
Uh—well, okay. And are you partnered or single?
Single.
How long have you been single?
My entire life.
You’ve never had a long term relationship?
My longest-term has been nine months.
Okay. Is that by choice?
By circumstance. Because I’ve always had to come here to Ptown. So if you met me in Florida or California, I’m only there until mid-May. And if I meet you in Ptown, I’m going to be leaving.
Are you OK with that? Have you made your peace with—
Am I OK? Is that a bad thing? Is there a sympathy factor?
No, what I’m asking is, is the way you structure your life by design, or do you yearn for a relationship maybe alongside your very mobile life?
Hm. Well, there was a point in my late 30s that I thought I needed a relationship. But it wasn’t going to work because of my relationship with Ptown. So, yeah, I’ve come to accept that. I think that my—what I’ve carved here in Ptown is worth much more than any relationship that I’ve had. But that’s not to say, as we’re talking here, that some beautiful, redheaded, six-foot-four guy is gonna walk in here and say “Hey!” And I’ll be like “Hey!” I’m open to anything.
Is that your sweet spot? A tall, hunky ginger?
It tends to be, yes.
Was the nine-month relationship with a tall, hunky ginger?
It was not.
Okay. Is that why it ended? [laughs]
[laughs] No. I just saw him minutes before I got on the phone with you. He was the best relationship I’ve ever had because he was so confident in himself.
Well, I think often that, especially in our gay world, what we take away from relationships that end is friendships. More, even—family.
Yep.
So, in terms of the yogurt business, did you have a great love for yogurt or did this just seem like a cool business to buy?
The latter. I love to create, to make stuff in the kitchen.
I see from Instagram that you go clamming and then cook a lot.
I do. I oyster too.
When did you first move to Ptown?
Um—2000.
Wow, so you lived there even before you started making porn. You started making movies in 2003, right?
I had no idea what was about to unfold when I moved here. But it was the—I don’t wanna say trap door, but the—
Portal?
There you go. Thank you.
Into the business?
Correct.
Okay, so let’s go back. You were born in Cleveland.
What were you like as a kid?
I was happy. I’ve been working through this with my therapist. All our problems can be traced back to our childhood and our mother and father. But we never needed anything. We were always provided for.
You mean materially or emotionally or both?
Both. So as I unpack and dissect my time in the porn industry, it was never, like—my parents always did what they needed to do. We never felt unloved or uncared-for or abandoned. It was a good, solid honest upbringing.
Your parents were together for the duration?
Yep. My dad died when I was 21, which was obviously— a while ago.
What were you like as a kid?
Trouble. I was the guy that everyone loved. I sold a lot of pot and acid, so I got along with the jocks, the choir, the math nerds. I was the guy everyone loved.
Were you out as gay?
You know, that’s a funny thing. I was not, but I was. It’s not like it was a thing back then.
What do you mean?
Well, they knew that I was not going to respond to the hippie chicks that were coming on to me. But there were so many other things to focus on besides my sexuality.
Like what?
I was also sober.
So you dealt but you didn’t do any of it?
Yep.
Why?
It just ended up that way because I sold a lot, but when I got sober I still had the same connections to make money that way, so I kept that business going.
When did you get sober?
At seventeen.
And what prompted that?
My mother raided my room and found—do you remember Revco? It was what CVS was. [Tim: he means that CVS bought the Revco chain in the late 1990s.] We used to go there and buy butane and just huff it and get all fucked up. That evolved into marijuana, then cocaine, then acid. I used to sell to all these rich kids in my high school.
Oh, wow. You really were a bad boy.
I was.
So how did you end up getting sober?
My mom—it was the first time my mother had been exposed to my gay life. I met a dude named Brandon on the gay phone lines and he came over and my mom looked at us and was like, “Um, why are you wearing different clothes? And who’s in your room with you?” Long story short, she busted me.
Different clothes?
Well, I was not in my own clothes.
Uh—you were in his?
Correct. And my mom flipped the fuck out and I ran away from home and eventually it led to her just accepting it because my dad had died and my mom was like, “Either I accept my gay son or I don’t, and then I have nobody.”
You said your dad died when you were 21, so this happened after?
Correct.
You’re no longer in high school.
No.
What did you do after high school?
[pause] That’s a good question. [laughs] So, uh, they expelled me my senior year and we had challenged the school board to allow me to come back if I agreed to enter a very specific program.
Why were you expelled?
Uh…paraphernalia.
Okay. And so you did the program?
So…from what I remember, the way the law was structured was that because of my age and a lot of external factors, I was allowed to complete a certain program to get my GED. That’s all I can tell you, honestly.
Okay. So—Frankie, you’re very sexy, obviously. I saw some pictures of you on your Insta from around this time that you’re talking about. You’re very sexy now and you were very sexy then. So, say, in high school, when these hippie chicks were hitting on you, did you have a sense of yourself as sexy?
Nope.
Because you weren’t known as a sexy guy in school? You weren’t voted “Cutest smile” or—
Oh, honey. Honey! I was voted “Least Likely to Succeed.” [laughs]
Really?
Well, kind of. I was nowhere on that radar for any award.
Okay. So, to the best of your memory, take me forward from this time—when you’re 21—about 1998. What happens next?
Not much.
Were you living with your mom in Cleveland?
Yeah. But I met this guy and he introduced me to the whole Cape Cod, Ptown, Nantucket lifestyle.
Nantucket as well?
Mm-hm.
Interesting. Why Nantucket? Did he have a place there?
He did. He managed a restaurant called the Jared Coffin House on Nantucket. He said, “Come out and we’ll have XYZ,” and I get there and XYZ was not the plan.
Uh—what did he mean by XYZ?
“You’re going to work in the upstairs room with the fine dining and you’re going to have your own room to live in.” But when I got there, it was a shared room with him and I was working downstairs with a crock pot of fucking, you know, of soup.
Did you immediately fall in love with that New England coastal vibe?
Yep.
What about it?
Uh, the mobility. The access to being nomadic.
Oh, okay. So it wasn’t just the regional vibe, it was this new vagabond life. So what happens next?
“I’m gonna leave.” I said that to the waiter I worked with and he said, “Just go to Ptown for one night.” So I did and went to this restaurant called Vorelli’s and asked if they were hiring and they said no. So I went to the Boatslip and met the guy I’d end up living with for the next four years who would become one of my best, best, closest friends. Michael Barrett. We’re still close. I just talked to him yesterday. He’s not in Ptown anymore though. He’s in Atlanta and Los Angeles.
So that was your first trip to Ptown?
Yep.
What was your impression?
Of—?
Of Ptown.
Well, when you’re 21 and just leaving Cleveland and coming to this gay mecca—it’s amazing.
What are your memories of your first few weeks?
Excess.
Excess.
Excess, yeah.
Partying.
Yep.
And men.
Well, I mean, I was old enough to know that it was a temporary thing. Don’t put a whole lot of stock into the whole party thing. But, um, yeah, I got it. One or two years later, the whole porn thing started, so I was already in that mode of “This isn’t real,” and to treat it as a stepping stone or—
This is a finite chapter?
Correct. Use it to your advantage. This is a very good, valuable tool.
Ok, so how did you get into porn? Who did you meet?
Doug Jeffries. I met him at a bathhouse in Ohio. And, uh—
I’m so sorry, who is Doug Jeffries?
He was a model for Chi Chi LaRue.
Okay. And then?
I kept his number on my Rolodex and one day I just decided to give it a shot, porn, and I had his number. He was my only contact in the industry. So I called him and sent him a photo that he sent to Chi Chi. So she called me and brought me to L.A. and I did a group scene. And she figured that if I could do that, I’m good to go.
What was it that compelled you to step into porn?
Boredom. I woke up, I had a VHS and a VCR machine and I’m like, “You know what? I can do that. It’d be nice.”
Wow. And by this point, did you have a sense of your hotness, because usually someone doesn’t—
Nope.
But I mean you had a hunch?
Not really. Honestly. I knew I was good-looking but I didn’t understand the magnitude. And I still don’t.
Okay. I’ve interviewed many porn actors for this Substack. And I love asking this question, which is: What was the experience of the first shoot like? What were you feeling?