"God no. I mean..." she rushed to cover, eyes going round.
"No. It's alright. 'God, no' is a perfectly acceptable answer. We only want actresses in kink who genuinely enjoy those kinks. There are plenty of vanilla scenes for those - like you - who are not interested in those."
"Oh, okay," she said, giving me one of those smiles. The fake ones. The ones your local barista or the cashier at the food store would give you. A customer service smile.
"How about - and these answers won't necessarily rule you out as a candidate since there are plenty of different kinds of scenes to do, so please answer truthfully - gangbang or menage?"
"Um, maybe?" she said, though everything about her body language said absolutely-fucking-not.
"DP?"
"DP?" she repeated, wanting clarification.
"Double penetration," I explained. "Double anal, double vaginal, or one in each."
"Oh, um... no?"
"No to which?"
"No to all."
I couldn't say I was exactly surprised. The vast majority of our actresses weren't into those scenes.
"Okay," I agreed, crossing off the boxes on a sheet in front of me. "Anal in general?" Yes, even porn stars sometimes refused to take it up the ass. "Rosie?" I prompted when she didn't answer. "If it's a no, that's fine."
"I don't know," she told me, refusing to make eye contact.
"You don't know because you haven't done it before?" I asked point-blank. 'Anal virgin' was a hugely popular category. A realistic one. Since everyone knew that ninety-nine percent of the vaginal defloration videos were complete bullshit. If a girl is going to lose her virginity for money, she could make a fuckuva lot more than a couple grand for a scene. But anal virgins were easy to come by.
"Yes," she agreed, her chest expanding with a deep breath as she forced her head up to look at me.
"That actually works in your favor," I told her as I checked the box. "I'm going to assume dominatrix and pegging and cuckold are just not your thing."
"No."
"So, essentially, you are mostly interested in vanilla scenes and possibly anal if it is the right situation and partner."
"I guess that is the right way of putting it," she agreed.
"We are always in the market for a good vanilla scene actress," I reassured her, realizing after the words were out of my mouth that I was all but telling her she had the job. When, in reality, she was the worst candidate of the day. Not because of her preferences, but because of her hesitance, her lack of enthusiasm, the way I felt like I was - in some way - talking her into it.
"So... I would have some say in who I, ah, work with?" she asked, the words bubbling up and bursting out like she had tried her best to hold them in.
"Rosie, you always have a say in who you work with," I assured her. "Sometimes, you just won't click with someone. And if we tried to force that, it would come through in the movie. And no one would want to watch that. Are you familiar with our service? Was there an actor, in particular, you have seen and wanted to work with?"
Sometimes those fantasy-come-true scenes were the best. All those long nights masturbating to the idea of someone then finally getting their hands on you? Yeah, that energy was palpable.
"I've really only ever... no, not really."
She didn't need to say it.
She'd only ever seen me.
Which meant she either hadn't watched porn in years or specifically only searched for me when she did watch it.
"You want to do a scene with me?"
Wait.
No.
What the fuck?
That sounded like an offer.
But it wasn't an offer.
That wasn't an offer I made. Not anymore. I was officially retired. I fucked on my free time only. And even then, not nearly as often as you'd think. There simply wasn't much free time to be had these days.
Sure, plenty of actors came out of retirement here and there. But usually for a big paycheck. Or some ultimate fantasy with some new starlet. Not for some newbie in the biz who tripped the switch to you a time or two who was sure to burn out in the business if she even made it to her first scene.
"I didn't realize... I thought you didn't..."
"I've been focusing on the business end of things. I can still do scenes."
Why the fuck was I still speaking?
She wasn't even the type of woman I liked doing scenes with. Confident and experienced was my type. The ones who were easy to work with and didn't make shit complicated. I never worked with a girl on her first scene.
There was absolutely no reason to break that track record now. For some doe-eyed woman with a honey-smooth voice. Wearing a Church Sunday sundress. Who'd never let a man take her in the ass before.
What the fuck was wrong with me?
"You'd do a, ah, movie with me?"
Nope.
Absolutely not.
Me coming out of retirement would be a big deal in my circle. There would be talk, speculation, fucking write-ups in certain online groups and blogs.
I didn't want the attention.
I was over all that.
I was better served behind the scenes, working the strings, making the kind of environment that used to exist in the golden age of the industry, creating quality work, not shaky-camera bullshit with too many close-ups of penetration, with nice sets, good lighting, safety and respect for the actors, with fair pay and fucking benefits. Some dignity that had hardly ever existed, even in the good old days. That was what my focus needed to be on. Not scenes. Not coming out of retirement. Not some pretty girl who had no business in the fucking industry to begin with.
"Yeah, I'd do a scene with you."
Oh, for fuck's sake.
But even as I was trying to think of a way to take that back, the relief flooding her face made the words die on my tongue.
Not excitement.
Not the pleasure at the idea of getting to bag a guy she'd fantasized about.
No.
Just pure, raw, unfiltered relief.
Coop walked her out of my office twenty minutes later after the paperwork had been filled out, coming back in with a quirked brow.
"That lasted longer than I expected."
"She's coming in Saturday."
"For a scene?" he asked, brows going down.
"Yeah. Vanilla."
"With who?"
Fuck. I hissed out a breath, running a hand down my face.
It would come out sooner or later. Might as well get it over with.
"With me."
TWO
Rosie $0
It's not like I woke up one day and thought Hey, I would love to be a porn star!
That wasn't how it worked.
Well, what did I know? Maybe that was how it worked for many men and women. I mean, people woke up all the time deciding they wanted to be actors or bakers or flying trapeze artists, creepy circus clowns, an entomologist who researches cockroaches for a living, dermatologists popping gross pimples, a urologist who sticks a finger up men's butts to check their prostate.
People woke up every single day deciding to be something new. For various reasons.
Not the least of which involved money.
Money had to be the biggest motivator in most life-changing decisions. Including deciding to sell your body for money.
See, I wasn't one of those women who likely existed who got all excited at the prospect of having sex in front of a camera, in having other people watch it.
In fact, the very idea made my stomach wobble around ominously. As it had every day since I came up with the plan.
Well, it wasn't even the plan. It wasn't even Plan B or C or even D. It was likely somewhere around Plan M or N. And, quite frankly, I was running out of ideas.
Focus on what you love doing my mother had once told me when I had said my goodbyes with a lump of guilt lodged firmly in my throat, ready to go clear across the country to start a new life at the ripe old age of eighteen. Money c
an always be come by.
See, the flaw in that logic was that, yeah, sure, money could be come by. Even easily. Any job could be attained. Then, you show up for a few weeks, and they hand you a paycheck. If you needed more money, you could get another job. Or another. But there were not a whole lot of ways to make a huge chunk of money in a very short period of time.
I mean, short of selling a kidney and half of my liver on the black market. And, really, if it was easier to figure out how to do such a thing, I might have considered that over the porn idea.
What was at risk there?
A scar?
Possible sepsis?
The hospital could treat me.
But I was more than mildly paranoid that by even Googling things such as How do I sell my own organs on the black market? might have half a dozen burly, intimidating men and women with kevlar and giant guns barging into my apartment and taking me in for questioning.
Porn, unlike the black market, was legal.
They had their own red carpet awards shows and everything.
I had tried everything else already. Obviously. Money troubles rarely made you immediately consider a career on your back.
I'd just flown back to California seven weeks before, leaving everything I knew, everything I owned, sinking what very little savings - since I had pursued passion over money as my mother suggested - into a one-bedroom apartment that, while small by most American standards, was a mansion compared to my studio in New York City.
Sylmar was just a hop, skip, and jump from where I had grown up - just on the outskirts of San Fernando, from where I was going to - from the looks of things - need to live for the majority of the rest of my life.
Sometimes fate worked that way. It gave you exactly what you wanted - a mediocre paying job that you adored in a city that you sank roots into, only to tear you out by them, send you clear across the country where you couldn't find a job in your chosen field. Or, at least, not right away.
I got an eight-to-four job at a local health food store ringing out overpriced organic fruits and vegetables, trendy kombucha, gluten-free red lentil pasta.
It would be tight, but I knew I could make it work if I cut down my phone plan, didn't get cable, maybe stole an old friend's Netflix password.
It was possible.
I had gotten good at scrimping, cutting coupons, finding great, free things to do with my time.
But then I got the call that would change the entire course of the rest of my life.
Some debts simply had to be paid. There was no plan to be worked off, no sympathy to be found when you said you didn't have the money.
So after sitting down at the small fake wooden table I had bought at a local discount store, resting my head in my hands, and having a cry - the good kind, the one that came along with heaving sighs, a waterfall of tears, an impressive amount of nose fluid, and a headache hangover - I started to think of my options.
And an extra minimum wage paying job just wasn't going to cut it.
And while my credit wasn't bad per se, I had nothing to serve as equity for a loan. Or, at least, that was what the three banks I visited had told me when I showed up the next morning with puffy eyes, red-stained cheeks, and the tiniest flame of hope still flickering in my chest.
They were quick and without mercy in blowing it out. There were guidelines, rules after all. Nothing could be done. No matter my sob story that I had nearly choked on as I tried to force the words out.
I didn't like having to ask for help. Having successfully managed to go my whole adult life without needing to ask anyone for a small loan, just a hold over until payday, it killed me to have to admit I didn't just need a little money for a small light bill or something, that I was deep, deep in an unexpected debt that simply had to be paid. By whatever means necessary.
As the days dragged on, as normal, sane options all passed through my hands, I let my mind go there.
To the less than conventional choices. To the opportunities that were out there for a woman who had what it took to reach for them.
Namely, a bit of desperation.
Or, in my case, a whole heaping pile of it.
I had heard rumors about strippers making something like a hundred-thousand a year if they were good enough, if the club was popular enough, if they had that edge.
Me? Well, I was about as rounded off at the edges as a woman could be. But I could fake it. I would fake it if it meant I could knock down the debt before my deadline in four months.
No one who had met me would ever accuse me of being an exhibitionist. Or even someone comfortable with nudity. Hell, in school for gym class, I got there early to steal a bathroom stall as to not have to strip down to my bra and panties. Around other girls my own age. Let alone men. Strange men.
I mean, I had gotten down to a bra and panties - and less - with men before. Of course. You didn't get to be in your mid-late twenties without having gotten naked and sweaty with your chosen partners. But the key word there was chosen.
As I walked into one of the clubs - a place made to look far more seedy in the daylight than it likely did at night with all the neon lights flashing on all the black surfaces - images of the types of un-chosen men who could be soon staring at my near - or fully - nude body worked themselves through my mind. Pockmarks. Hangover waistlines. Men old enough to be my grandfather. Guys with sweaty meat hands that would slip money into a thin strip of floss at my hips. The kind of panties I didn't even own. Not even the kind I would buy for something sexy with a significant other. But could I buy and slip into a pair if it meant I could pay down this debt? Absolutely.
Or, at least, I hoped so.
I was led over toward the bar where I was offered a drink I turned down. Then worried that it sounded rude to turn it down until a man came out from a back hallway with a giant ruby pinkie ring and his slim body clad in a suit that likely cost more than my car did and informed me that they were full-up.
The next told me the same.
Then the next.
Dozens. I had been to dozens of strip clubs, go-go bars, gentleman clubs - whatever they preferred to call themselves - and been turned down by all of them.
At the last one, an older lady who ran the place told me with a wry smile that it used to be a joke in the industry that girls would strip to pay for college, but with the rising cost of tuition, it was actually the stone cold truth.
And while she didn't say it, I understood completely. I had nothing on a much more sexually confident college-aged girl.
I went home defeated, completely at a loss for what could be done, how in the world someone could make that much money in a short amount of time.
Even signing up as a human guinea pig, trying out drugs that could kill me wouldn't do it.
I could sell my car, but what I'd get for that wouldn't cut it either. Not even a chunk out of it seeing as it was a piece of crap that was only in decently used condition when I got it over a decade ago. Besides, California wasn't like New York; you kind of needed a car to get from point A to point B.
The idea came to me during a shift at work, mind numb from repeated tasks done nearly on autopilot.
Well, not even the idea really.
I saw a headline on a magazine at the register about sex.
Fifty new moves to impress your partner in bed or something cheesy and ridiculous like that.
And my mind kind of jokingly thought something along the lines of I'm almost desperate enough to find myself a corner somewhere and start taking rides to dark alleys with strangers.
It was entirely in jest, of course, seeing as working the streets was likely one of the most dangerous jobs in the world. Between vicious pimps and unpredictable Johns, who knew what you could end up having done to you.
But I couldn't seem to shake the thought about the world's oldest profession as I bought myself a small, absurdly overpriced pre-made package of ziti with pesto and some mixed veggies, reminding myself that my employee discount would take off twe
nty percent, and that would likely be cheaper than driving across town to a chain grocery store to pick up something for dinner.
As I stood in front of the microwave, the cool linoleum in the kitchen easing the ache in my feet from standing all day, I wondered if there was money to be made in your body.
In a safer way.
I was situated too far from Nevada to consider taking up at a brothel. And, from what I heard on some prime time series about legal brothels, the owner of it - a glorified pimp, really - took more than his fair share of the money even though he did none of the work.
But I was in California.
I was a hop, skip, and jump from San Fernando Valley.
Or, as it was more colloquially named, Porn Valley.
Ignoring my meal as the microwave beeped, I made my way to my laptop, bringing up a browser to see, first and foremost, what the average female porn actress made per film.
The result was underwhelming at first. Fifteen-hundred per movie.
But then I did some math.
Fifteen-hundred per movie times three movies a week times three months was fifty-four grand.
Fifty would cover the debt.
And the extra four would put some little chunk of money back into my savings.
Three months.
It wasn't a long time.
In the grand scheme of things, it would be a blink.
And, well, I had no family left to care about me having sex on screen.
The question was... could I do it?
Could I strip down to nothing in a room full of strangers, get into whatever position was demanded of me, and let someone I didn't know inside my body?
Could I do that?
My first gut instinct was No way in hell.
Sex, in my personal past, hadn't always been about love, of course. That simply wasn't how it worked anymore. Sometimes you had a need that had to be taken care of. So you texted an ex or a friend-with-benefits. You had the need handled so you could focus on life - and not your sex drive - again.
That said, sex had always been private. It had always been just between the person I was engaging in it with and me.
And, what is probably even more important, I had always wanted it.
faire l'amour Page 2
