Porn’s boy next door and the frontier of female sexuality.
James Deen won’t stop apologizing. From the moment he emerges from the garage of his sprawling, gray house and shakes my hand, he’s sorry. He’s sorry about the construction workers patching a hole in his roof. He’s sorry about the porn visible on his computer. He’s sorry about his television—he had it set to wake him up when Scooby Doo came on, but Scooby Doo didn’t come on, and now he’s running late.