I felt like a man. And I threaded my hands through Traci’s hair and murmured everything I felt to her, I told her what I wanted her to do to me and what I wanted to do to her, and for a moment, I could tell that she was as lost in the scene as I was. That despite the cameras—or maybe because of them—these sensations were galvanized into something exhilarating and intoxicating, and we both ended the scene filled with a sense of happy magic.
The director was so pleased with my performance that he asked to do another film, and another, and another, and by the end of the summer, I’d made five thousand dollars by having sex on camera, with the promise that I could make more if I was willing to segue into hardcore pornography.
I was.
After signing with a talent agency, I cancelled my UCLA classes, told my shocked but accepting parents, and rented an apartment in Burbank.
And that’s how I accidentally became a porn star.
You’re right. Porn is always the answer. No wonder those people keep losing on Family Feud.
That’s the first thing waiting on my screen when I wake up. It’s crazy what falling asleep without half a bottle of whiskey will do for a man’s energy, and during the past week, the urge to go whiskey-numb has slowly diminished. Part of it is Vida’s offer, an offer that I’m still trying to think of something for.
And part of it is Devi, my personal Cassiopeia, my Persian Queen.
But even thinking those words sends weird shivers down my spine, hot and cold flashes of lust and excitement, and also fear. Because what if she doesn’t feel the same way I do? What if I’m just that friendly guy she did a scene with once?
Or worse, the guy who spurned her advances at a party?
Fuck.
Don’t I give great advice? I text back to Devi, still lying in bed. I can’t believe I got fired from writing fortunes for the fortune cookie factory.
No response. Not for the first time this week, I wonder if I’m bothering her with my texts, intruding on what I imagine to be her well-ordered, healthy, beachy life. Maybe she’s just tolerating me because she doesn’t want to be rude. Maybe she actually thinks I’m pathetic—too limp-dicked to kiss her at Vida’s and now texting her like a boy in middle school.
I let the phone drop to the comforter and groan. I should leave her alone, I should bottle up this years-long crush I’ve had on her and give her space.
But then she texts me back and I’m diving for the phone again.
So tell me, O Wise One. I’m thinking about maybe doing some mainstream scenes. You know—with guys instead of girls. What do you think?
What do I think? I think I want to run over to her place now and make sure I’m the first male performer on her list! But no, I need to think like a friend and a mentor, not like a guy that jacks off to her every night.
Hardcore? I ask. A lot of people hear hardcore and think of extreme porn—BDSM and rough sex and all that, but really all it means is explicit. In hardcore porn, you get to see all the good stuff happening, pussy-eating and ejaculation and actual fucking. A lot of Devi’s lesbian scenes could be considered hardcore, since she goes down on girls sometimes and they go down on her.
Yes, she texts back. But nothing too intense. No kink or group-sex. I’m on the fence about anal.
*On* the fence? No, no, no, you’re supposed to be bent over the fence. I can’t help myself. I’m only human.
Har har har. I don’t have anything against it—but I really don’t know if I could do it with just any performer, you know? I’d want to be with someone I trust.
I groan again, turning my face into the pillow. My dick is stirring from all this Devi-anal talk, and God, I wish I could be the performer she trusted. I would make her feel so good, I’d go slow, warm her up with all the orgasms she needed to relax, and then I’d make her feel like a glowing goddess. I’d use my fingers first, probing as I kissed and licked her cunt, and then I’d slowly work her open, sucking on her clit until her toes curled. I’d make her come with my dick inside her pussy, and while she was coming down, I would roll her onto her side, get on my knees and gently press inside. And then I’d make her come with my dick in her ass.
You’re making me too hard to think straight, Cass.
Very funny, Logan. But really, what should I do?
Does she honestly think I’m joking about being hard? Does she not realize the impact she has on me?
Of course she doesn’t, Captain Skinny-Dick. All she has to go on is how you pulled away in the pool.
I force myself to focus on her question. You know me, my camel-riding queen. I’ll always say do more porn. But make sure that it’s stuff you feel comfortable with—stuff you feel safe and happy doing. Work with people you trust.
This is unexpectedly serious for me, and I feel a little self-conscious pressing send. She doesn’t respond, and I hope it’s because she’s mulling over what I’ve said and not because she’s rolling her eyes at how suddenly pretentious and paternalistic I’ve gotten.
This doesn’t solve the problem of me being hard, however. Hard and dying for a taste of Devi—her skin, her lips, her cunt. I reach down and circle my erection, using my other hand to cup my balls, which are heavy and aching for release.
I glance at my clock—eight in the morning. Ginger will be here in a few hours to shoot a scene, and as good as it would feel to rub one out right now, it might feel even better to use Ginger’s wet pussy to get off. I squeeze my dick gently, imagining it now, Ginger tied up and helpless while I stroked in and out.
I would give my eyeteeth for it to be Devi, though.