Robby Apples

1.2M views

Robby Echo popped out in Seattle on June 12, 1986. He finally ditched his virginity at eighteen because he was pissed waiting. Grabbed the first girl who said yes, lasted two straight hours—he knew every trick to stall his load, plus nerves and the rubber worked overtime. She had to shove him off before her dad walked in. Seventh grade, he and two buddies sucked on the hottest girl in school’s tits during a football game; payment was a quick flash of pubes. He’s fucked a woman in the ass at his mom’s high school reunion, and once railed his date in the car while the ferry crossed Puget Sound. Off-camera madness? He wandered off the mountain boundaries snowboarding and figured he’d die. Third grade he shit in a urinal. Cops dragged him from an abandoned warehouse skate spot senior year. Psychedelics murdered most of his fears; death just sounds like a new trip. Biggest worry? No more apples. Karla Kush, his ex, got him in the door. She was already shooting, brought him to OC Modeling, and they signed him up. Stranded on an island he’d pack a machete, a spear, and fire-starting filament, then live like a king. Screw the endless grind of selling yourself for fake dollars on a rock with an expiration date. His shelves hold Siddhartha by Hesse—“makes you see how we chase the stupid highs of Samsara”—plus How to Be Idle and whatever Kurt Vonnegut spits out for nailing how ridiculous our little games are. Favorite flick: The Holy Mountain, “all symbolism, zero hand-holding like these cheap custard films.” When he’s not fucking on set he’s practicing yoga, binging docs, or making art. His folks know the porn deal; nobody’s lecturing him. Love still trumps any awkward conversation, and he killed whatever religious guilt was lingering a decade back.

1.2M views

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