Ryan McLane stands six-one and comes out of Indiana. He skipped basketball scholarships at Butler because the money didn't add up, grabbed his stuff and drove west to LA. Volleyballs replaced the basketballs. Twenty-seven years old in 2009, he walked onto a porn set and never looked back. His abs are the first thing you notice—ridged, tight, hard enough to count from across the room.
First time he had sex it cost him cash inside a brothel. His take? "I don't recommend it."
Early days brought a bukkake gig in a stifling Hollywood loft. Fifty men lined the walls, fists pumping, waiting their turn. McLane still remembers the panic of being left last: "You didn't want to finish the night with an empty face and full balls."
Real love scared him worse. He once swore he'd tear down the sky for a girl, felt that bone-deep ache honest love leaves behind. Now he calls it the strangest thing he's ever done—letting someone matter that much.
His nightmare? Living forever. Stick him on a desert island and he wants a boat, but also a full pharmacy, endless women, and a stocked fridge. "Sounds perfect."
On his shelf: The Fountainhead—objectivist gospel—and Rothfuss fantasy to clear his head. La La Land owns his favorite-film slot now; Jerry Maguire got dethroned by the music and the way the city swallows dreamers whole.
Top three needs: call his parents, sketch new designs, punish the iron at the gym. His folks know exactly what he does for a living, happily married themselves, zero judgment. He's never seen the inside of a squad car, but once on Twitter he called Vin Scully overrated. In Los Angeles that still counts as a sin.
Ryan McLane stands six-one and comes out of Indiana. He skipped basketball scholarships at Butler because the money didn't add up, grabbed his stuff and drove west to LA. Volleyballs replaced the basketballs. Twenty-seven years old in 2009, he walked onto a porn set and never looked back. His abs are the first thing you notice—ridged, tight, hard enough to count from across the room.
First time he had sex it cost him cash inside a brothel. His take? "I don't recommend it."
Early days brought a bukkake gig in a stifling Hollywood loft. Fifty men lined the walls, fists pumping, waiting their turn. McLane still remembers the panic of being left last: "You didn't want to finish the night with an empty face and full balls."
Real love scared him worse. He once swore he'd tear down the sky for a girl, felt that bone-deep ache honest love leaves behind. Now he calls it the strangest thing he's ever done—letting someone matter that much.
His nightmare? Living forever. Stick him on a desert island and he wants a boat, but also a full pharmacy, endless women, and a stocked fridge. "Sounds perfect."
On his shelf: The Fountainhead—objectivist gospel—and Rothfuss fantasy to clear his head. La La Land owns his favorite-film slot now; Jerry Maguire got dethroned by the music and the way the city swallows dreamers whole.
Top three needs: call his parents, sketch new designs, punish the iron at the gym. His folks know exactly what he does for a living, happily married themselves, zero judgment. He's never seen the inside of a squad car, but once on Twitter he called Vin Scully overrated. In Los Angeles that still counts as a sin.
