Could the same be said about a stranger? Probably not. I mean, it was a professional industry. I was sure they carried things like lube on set knowing that not every woman would be all hot and bothered by every scene partner. Discomfort didn't have to be a part of it. At least physically.
Emotionally, yeah, that was the issue, wasn't it? That was the real obstacle to overcome.
It wasn't the money part, per se.
Sex was, in many different ways, a transactional thing. You traded it. For orgasms, for affection, for love, for - in some cases - gifts.
It didn't offend me, the idea of getting paid for it.
In fact, the idea of obligatory sex with a partner who wanted it was much more offensive to me personally.
My issue was the crew.
Men behind cameras, holding lights, holding mics or... well, whatever else was needed at a movie set of sorts. Standing there. Watching.
The rational side of my brain reminded me that these men or women had likely overseen hundreds - if not thousands - of scenes in their careers. That it likely long since stopped giving them any kind of physical reaction, was likely as bland as watching some old rerun on TV.
And, really, it wasn't like I would genuinely be enjoying the sex. It wasn't like I was sharing with these people my true reactions, my most intimate sounds or feelings.
It would be acting.
Like I did in countless plays in school.
Like I had needed to do in one or two sexual encounters in the past when there was no way I was actually going to orgasm, but the guy was hellbent on me climaxing first.
And if all it was was faking, then, really, it was as impersonal as could be, right?
At least that was what I tried to make myself believe as I reheated my meal for a second time, sitting down in my living room, looking into how one went about getting into porn movies.
Some, it seemed, got chosen while out in public. When they were pretty. Had amazing, standout bodies.
A cursory glance down at myself said that while I was in no way ashamed of my body, it wasn't one you looked at and immediately thought belonged in porn.
Then there were interviews. Just like you had to do for any job. I wasn't - admittedly - great with interviews. But I could practice, work on making myself seem like someone who could, in fact, have sex on camera for money.
As the night went on and the idea got more and more cemented in my brain - a possible solution to a problem that could rock my world once again if not handled - I started looking into companies, trying to figure out who was the best to work with, who made sure all their actors got regularly tested, who provided a safe work environment.
There were dozens upon dozens of names.
But one kept coming up. In articles about being innovative, about trying to bring back the old porn industry.
Golden Age Productions.
It was, essentially, a streaming service. You paid per month and got unlimited access. It, apparently, prevented their movies from being stolen and uploaded to free sites which made them more in demand because if you wanted to see a certain actor or actress, the only way to do so was to sign up yourself.
Well, that sounded like the ideal situation to me.
I went to their website, found the contact information, and filled it out before I could talk myself out of it.
I woke up in the morning shaking my head at myself, at the idea that I could get paid for sex, could pay off my debt with my body.
But then there was a ding on my phone. An email coming in. Some man named Cooper from Golden Age Productions getting back to my application and attached photos asking me if I would be willing to come in the following week for an interview. Attached to the email was an information sheet, laying out the need to come in with a new STI screening from the past three months, outlining the process of interviewing, the pay scale, what could be expected on the set.
And, somehow, seeing it all laid out like that, professionally, matter-of-factly, like any job might, it made it seem more doable.
I agreed to the meeting.
I went to a clinic for an STI screening, being handed the negative rapid HIV test immediately, being told it would take forty-eight hours for the others and up to two weeks for the final ones to come in. Not knowing if that was enough, I printed off the results from my last screening at my gyno about eight months before. I hadn't had sex since then. And never without a condom, anyway. I wasn't going to come back positive. If they needed me to wait for the new tests before a scene, well, that only put me a week behind schedule in paying off the debt. If I could get a big chunk of it to them by then, I doubted they would balk about me being just a couple thousand behind if they knew it was coming in just a week.
Or so I hoped.
Once everything was done, once my brain didn't have a checklist to go over, my hands didn't have files to compile, that was when all the worries came surging back. So that by the time it was the day, I was a jittery, anxious mess, dressing in the only thing I owned that wasn't jeans or tees - a pretty floral sundress, I grabbed my file, tucking it into an oversized purse as though people I passed on the street could see the file and somehow know that inside it was paperwork about my nether region's health and a little questionnaire I had filled out from the paperwork that Cooper had sent my way.
Golden Age Productions had clearly, at one time, been a school. From the looks of it, an elementary one with all its bricks and numerous windows, the giant parking lot, the playground equipment out back. They had even kept the old school sign out front, painting over whatever color it had once been with an understated gold, and using the little black and white letters all school signs had to spell out the company name.
I parked in the far back looking at the thick woods, taking a couple of minutes to pull myself together before forcing myself to get out of the car, walk up to the front of the building, press my finger into the buzzer because, apparently, this place was all about the safety.
That, oddly, put me a bit more at ease as a woman came to the door wearing a baby pink silk robe over a purple peekaboo lace bodysuit. Her blonde hair was curled perfectly, her makeup understated, but amplifying her green eyes and plump lips.
"Are you here for an interview?" she asked, giving me a warm smile.
"I, ah, yeah. I'm Rosie. I was told by Cooper to be here today."
"Oh, exciting," she declared, pushing the door wider, welcoming me in as though this was her house and I was an old friend finally coming back for a visit. "You are the cutest thing too. No wonder Coop picked you. Are you nervous? You look nervous," she informed me, making my head jerk up guiltily. "The interview will be a breeze. They really just want to talk to you, get to know you, see if you will be a good fit. You were smart not putting on too much makeup. Two of the other girls look like a beauty school practice mannequin. The boss man isn't a huge fan of makeup, believe it or not," she added, leading me toward a door to what must have at one time been the main office. "I'm Melody, by the way," she told me, pulling open the door. "You can go ahead in and sit down. Coop will be in to take you guys in for the interview in a few. Relax. You're going to do great."
Before I could even thank her, she was gone. Were it not for the trail of her robe around the corner, I would swear I made her up in my over-anxious imagination.
As I took a deep breath, I was starting to think that if Melody was what they were expecting, I had little to no chance at all.
But I pushed that thought aside as I moved toward the waiting area where four other girls were waiting already, dressed more appropriately than I did in tighter or shorter clothes, their eyes made to look more sultry.
Maybe the 'boss man' wasn't a fan of a lot of makeup, but I thought they looked good. Confident. Something I felt like I was wholly lacking as I moved over to the free chair, catching the tail end of a conversation.
"Well... at least we know most of the guys are good-looking. And hung. I once fucked this wrinkly assed old man with a micro cock to live
at the beach one summer."
Okay.
Yeah.
I definitely didn't fit in.
And as the meeting time came and went with no appearance of this 'boss man' I'd heard about, I managed to get more and more sure this was a waste of my time. I got a coffee to try to occupy a few moments, but couldn't drink it when I noticed my hands had started shaking, clasping them in my lap to make it less obvious as Cooper finally made an appearance, saying he would be right back with the boss.
Each girl came and went, all of them walking out with a spring in their step. Like they'd been told they had already gotten the job. Which didn't look good for me. Why would they take unsure, shaky me when they already had four gorgeous, sure of themselves women?
But even as I was considering walking out and saving my pride, Cooper was stepping back into the waiting room and calling my name.
"Deep breaths. It's just an interview," he told me as he opened the office door for me.
The office was, well, exactly what I had been expecting. All deep, neutral, masculine tones, a large desk, leather chairs.
The man behind it had his back to me. I had gotten a cursory glance of him as he came into the main office a while before. I eyed an expensive suit, shining shoes, a watch that looked designer, and the edge of a stubble-laden chin before he turned and walked away.
Hearing the door close, his chair swiveled back to face me, and I swore the floor opened up.
I wouldn't claim to say I knew a whole lot about porn, about porn stars in particular. But I was no prude either. I'd seen porn here or there over the years. Especially when I had dated a guy who couldn't seem to get in the mood without it. Seeming to sense that the fact made me a little insecure about myself even though he assured me that it had nothing to do with me, he would turn the laptop toward me, telling me to pick the movie.
After a lot of trial and error with scenes that made me uncomfortable, that were too rough or too kinky or where the female was clearly not having a good time at all, we came across him.
Preston Renault.
Of course, you like him, my boyfriend had said with a scoff. All the girls like him.
I didn't know about all the girls, but the ones he shared scenes with sure seemed to enjoy themselves. Sure, maybe they were simply better actresses, but if I were a betting person, I'd put my money on them not faking it.
And there was just something about Preston Renault.
It wasn't just his ridiculously good looks either. Or his slight French accent that got stronger, thicker when he was turned on.
No.
There was an awareness, an intensity in him. All his focus was on her while they were together. When she gasped, there would be an almost imperceptible smile on his face. As she got closer to an orgasm, his hand would reach for hers.
There was passion there, plain and simple.
And after about a dozen scenes with men who went at these women like they were nothing, like they didn't matter except for the pleasure they brought to them, it was refreshing.
Pretty quickly, his were the only scenes I was willing to watch.
Four months later, that relationship fizzled out. And I hadn't been quite ready to give up on Preston yet.
For another few months, I would open an incognito window and find more videos featuring him while the sexual frustration made me take things into my own hands.
It wasn't until my next relationship that I stopped watching the videos. That boyfriend was offended by the idea of me watching porn, desiring another man. So I put them away. After enough time passed, I had forgotten about them
About him.
But here he was.
In an office.
About to interview me for a chance to star in a movie he produced.
Life, it seemed, worked in really strange ways.
He looked similar to how I remembered him. Older, though.
Time had chiseled his cheekbone hollows deeper, had made his brow a bit more stern. The scruff on his face mixed with his suit gave him an intimidating, boss-like vibe.
Other than that, his dark brown hair was a bit longer, cut to push back in a more modern style. His bright blue eyes were ones I remembered all too well. His body was the same - wide shouldered, thin, but strong.
In his presence, and during the questioning, I felt more and more out of place. Inexperienced. Completely naive, in fact, of the whole industry.
And, quite frankly, I was finding it hard to focus correctly with that deep, smooth voice of his speaking to me. A voice I had heard many times before saying scandalous or downright filthy things. And it was asking me if I was an anal virgin, if I was into fisting or BDSM.
I never felt more like a prude as I did in that office.
And as we talked about the scenes, I felt the anxiety coming back as it seemed like he was going to let me have a chance. To do a scene. To prove myself.
Of course, I had considered all the particulars of such an arrangement before, but now that it seemed like a reality instead of some far fetched idea, all I could think of was those old movies with the men who treated women like they were cheap and disposable, like their experience didn't matter all that much to them.
Then I had said the words.
A question, really.
If he would do a scene with me.
Figuring, almost knowing, it was a no. Because he was the boss. Because I doubted the boss had time to do scenes. Or even wanted to anymore.
But then he said he would.
And, somehow, it all fell away.
The anxiety, the uncertainty, the bone-deep fear.
It moved through and out my body like a wave. "Vanilla," he added. I wasn't even aware there was any tension left in me until he said that word, taking whips and handcuffs and DP thoughts out of my head.
Preston Renault wanted to do a vanilla sex scene with me.
It was, quite literally, a fantasy come to life.
As he pushed paperwork across the desk for me to go over and fill out, I somehow knew I could do it.
Would I be able to enjoy myself like the other actresses I had seen him with did? No. Probably not. Not with all those people around. But at least I would know he would take care with me, wouldn't look at me like I was trash while he was inside me, wouldn't say those awful things some of the male leads said to the females about them being worthless, like degradation was a turn on for most women. And, sure, maybe there was a group of women that did appeal to, but as a whole, I was pretty sure the vast majority of us liked intensity and passion and a strong focus on us and our enjoyment.
Porn, I guessed, was mostly made for men, though.
"What?" Preston asked, making me realize the scoff I had thought would be in my head only was, in fact, external.
"Oh, it's just... I was thinking about how most porn is made for men," I admitted, not quite sure why I didn't brush it off, or come up with some halfway believable excuse.
"I guess there is a lot of truth to that," he agreed, seemingly un-offended even though he was clearly more of an expert in the field than I was. "But research says one-fourth of all porn viewership is female. And that number rises every day. The fact that the market hasn't catered more toward the female audience is just one of the things we are trying to remedy here. We have done extensive polling to try to figure out where the female viewer's interest lies. Then we have worked tirelessly to provide much more content that caters to those themes."
"What are women into?"
"Statistically? Lesbian porn or male-male porn for the United States. But if you break it down by state, the midwest women search for teens, the south search for diversity, mostly ebony, northern-central search for 'female friendly' lovemaking scenes. And, for reasons we have no idea about, Pennsylvania, Missouri, and Ohio really dig their bondage. Oh, and the state of Washington is where most female hentai viewers are."
"Hentai," I repeated, drawing a blank.
"Japanese manga porn."
"But... that do
esn't involve actors."
"Right. Which is why we don't currently cater to that fetish. We are looking into it, though. That and having a section on the site for erotic fiction which we have found a large interest in."
"Covering all the bases," I mused, pushing the paperwork back across to him.
"That's the plan. If we want to change modern porn as we know it, we have to have something for everyone. And do it with some dignity and respect for everyone involved."
Dignity and respect.
I liked that.
"So, do you have any questions?" he asked, taking my paperwork, slipping it inside my folder without looking at it.
"Oh, um, I guess about the specifics of what I need to do - or bring - or anything like that. To my first scene," I added.
"Not much is expected. You shower. Groom. If you have anything sexy to wear, lingerie-wise, wear it. If not, we will supply it."
"What should I wear?"
"Something like this is fine," he said, waving a hand toward me. "We will be going for a more female-friendly type movie. At least for now. Until you are ready to consider something else."
"Are there any, ah, guidelines or rules or anything I should know about?"
"You have to be respectful toward everyone here. No boyfriends on set. No talking shit with the girls about the guys, or with the guys about the girls. No fucking co-workers in the building unless you're doing a scene. No one wants to walk into the break room where we're all supposed to eat to see someone bare-assed and fucking on the counter. Oh, and you signed off on this in the contract, but just to be more explicit. You have a non-compete clause. Which means you can't star in any films while you work here. You can't webcam unless you webcam for us. You can't do nude photography. No escorting or prostitution. We want to create this idea of being untouchable. Which was what made the Golden Age of Porn as successful as it was. You couldn't walk up and touch the fantasy. So we don't want anyone else getting their hands on you. Outside your personal relationships, of course."
"Okay. That won't, ah, be a problem."
"Great. Then we'll see you on Saturday. Just come at the time Coop sends you. Buzz. Don't worry," he added, leading me out to the door, "someone will be waiting for you."
faire l'amour Page 3
