I like real.
Lexi transitions seamlessly into petting Ginger’s ass now, tugging on Ginger’s thong and spanking her for the benefit of Tanner’s second camera directly across from the couch. He stays behind the one shooting from the side, so he can change angles or cut in closer when he needs; later we’ll blend the footage between the two cameras to maximize all the elements of the scene. But the reason I have Tanner is so I don’t have to think about this shit too hard when I’m actually in the scene—I tell him what I want, we discuss everything beforehand. After it’s over, we’ll edit the scene together, but right now I can just focus on the only thing I want to focus on, which is tasting the inside of Ginger’s mouth.
I crush my lips to hers, and she tastes, fittingly enough, like Big Red gum. We kiss a few more times before I cup my hand around the back of her neck and hold her face fast to mine as I part her lips with my own and lick inside. She tries to pull back, since, like a lot of girls, she likes to stage kiss. But I don’t. I deepen the kiss, stroking my tongue against hers and then pulling her lower lip between my teeth. She makes a little noise—a noise of protest or affirmation, I’m not sure which—but I keep going. As per our pre-game discussion, she’ll reach up and subtly tap the outside of my arm if she gets emotionally or physically uncomfortable and I’ll stop the second that happens, but until then she’s mine.
No tap, no mercy.
Once I have Ginger panting, I turn my face to Lexi. I decide right away that I’m going to book a million more scenes with her as soon as we’re finished today, because she’s not afraid of tongue, not at all, and when I reach down to play with her pussy, I find it completely soaking wet.
“Good girl,” I murmur against her mouth. She squirms against my hand, and I grin at her. “Is there something you want?”
“I want you to fuck me,” she croons.
She says it with the rote intonation of an experienced performer, and I press the pad of my finger against her clit, rubbing a tight little circle that makes her gasp. “I don’t believe you,” I inform her quietly, moving my hand to spank her ass. She lets out a breath of real surprise.
“You better convince me or maybe I won’t fuck you at all,” I continue. “Maybe I won’t let you come. How do you feel about that?”
She blinks at me, her mouth parting as I find her clit once again, stroking her in earnest now. She whimpers and I can feel her wetness all over my hand now. “Please,” she murmurs.
And then there it is, that moment I love, when the performance starts to skid into the real, where her body is telling her yes yes yes, you want to fuck him, and it becomes about more than the money or the scene. It becomes about relieving the ache I’ve just created inside her. (I like to send my girls away happy. It’s good business, and I’m impossibly addicted to the feeling of a girl coming on my dick.)
I give Lexi one final, lingering kiss, and then I guide my girls towards each other. They start kissing, Ginger grinding down on my erection, Lexi running her small hands over Ginger’s tits, and when I look down, I see that Ginger is leaving a wet spot on the front of my jeans.
“Fuck,” I groan. “Fuck yes.”
They lick and nibble each other’s mouths, Ginger taking charge as she slides her hand behind Lexi’s neck and moves down to kiss her throat, then back up to Lexi’s lips. I catch a glimpse of pink tongues and white teeth, and my dick would look so good in between their faces right now, sliding in between those lips and tongues. I can see it slipping into one girl’s mouth, then the other’s, and oh my God, if Ginger doesn’t stop rubbing her pussy against me, I am going to flip her over and fuck her ass right now.
That thought summons another—a memory really—of different place and time, of two different girls. I bite it down, push it away, because it’s a Raven thought…except not really, because even though Raven was there, it’s the other girl I want to think about, it’s the other girl I’ve been secretly jacking off to for the last three years.
It’s Devi Dare that Logan O’Toole thinks of when he wants to get off by himself.
And then out of the corner of my eye, I see Tanner raise a finger, our signal that we’ve got enough of the foreplay and it’s time to move on. I am so reluctant to stop all this when I have both girls kissing and grinding so nicely on top of me, with Devi and her perfectly plump ass hovering in my mind…
With a low growl, I fist one hand into Ginger’s fire engine red hair and the other into Lexi’s silky blond locks, and I stand up, dragging them both with me, forcing them down to their hands and knees where they crawl after me like the little minxes they are.
I let go of their hair and walk backward to my bedroom, going slowly enough that Tanner can join my backwards walk with a camera and so the girls don’t bruise their knees clambering across my hardwood floors.
Neither Ginger nor Lexi get off on such overt submission, but that’s fine because they are faking it so well for the camera, waggling their asses and batting their eyes as they prowl towards my bedroom door like cats. It’s also fine because I’ve tried to stay away from the hardcore submission scenes for a while (three months) for a plethora of reasons (Raven, Raven, Raven) and playful, fake dominance is exactly the kind of facile, uncomplicated work I’ve been burying myself in lately.
“Okay, that’s good. Give me about fifteen minutes to set up?” Tanner doesn’t wait for a response as he trots back to the living room for his equipment. I go into my bedroom to make sure I don’t have embarrassing shit all over the place, which I don’t, just laundry and endless stacks of external hard drives and some tax stuff shoved haphazardly into a binder. I pull the covers tighter across my already-made bed (I make my bed every morning, just like my mom taught me) and almost step on a pile of DVD cases lying on the floor. I pick up the movie on the top.
By now, I can almost read Raven’s name without flinching. Raven’s Real Playdates was a feature-length film we made near the very beginning of our relationship, only a couple months in, and while I usually give all the DVDs I get from my films away as prizes and contest incentives, I kept this one. I flip the case over to look at the back, at the still of Raven lying back getting her pussy licked. The licking is being done by a smiling girl on her hands and knees, a girl with long cinnamon hair and golden-brown skin.
I’m already hard, but the sight of Devi Dare with her naked ass in the air is enough to make a man insane. Especially when that man remembers all too well what it was like to touch her, what it was like to push his cock into that smiling mouth.
“You okay?” I asked, right before the filming started and she, Raven and I climbed onto the bed.
“Yeah,” she whispered. “It’s my first real scene though, so…”
“Take it easy?”
A sunny laugh. “I was going to say make it memorable.”
It was memorable for me at least. I’ve jacked off to both the memory of that scene and the actual thing on DVD enough times to have every gasp and moan memorized. And still I’m about to come just thinking about it.
I need to fuck someone. Where is Tanner with the cameras?
By the time I’ve kicked my dirty boxers and the Criterion Collection DVD cases under my bed and walked back out, Tanner is still breaking down equipment and the girls are already back on their phones. Ginger is apparently tweeting selfies of her tits, while Lexi giggles at something she’s reading.
I accept the fact that fucking is still a ways off I and readjust my raging erection as I help Tanner bring in his camera stands and lighting boards.
“Are you going to Vida’s party tonight?” Tanner asks as we work. “You should, you know. Networking and all that bullshit.”
“I honestly haven’t thought about it,” I say, which is a lie. I’ve thought about it a lot. Vida Gines is the grand-maven of the porn scene right now, a former star turned producer, and her party tonight is celebrating her company’s acquisition of Lelie, a popular Dutch feminist porn studio. And that makes this party a problem for me.
<
br /> Don’t get me wrong, I love feminist porn. The authenticity, the real women, the real orgasms, and I am a little obsessed with how creative and visual the directors are. Not to mention that my erection-fairy Devi Dare has only done the fair trade, female-friendly girl-girl stuff since Raven’s Real Playdates, and I make it a point to watch every single one of those.
Plus, Vida’s party is going to be huge, and while O’Toole Films is doing well, it never hurts to rub shoulders with affiliate managers, distributors, and new talent.
No, the problem is that the party will have the feminist porn crowd there. And the art-porn crowd, and the alt-porn crowd, and the locus at the middle of those three groups…
Raven.
My brain stutters to a halt, and I blink at the lighting board I’d just set on the floor.
Tanner reads my mind. “She may not be there, you know.”
“I know,” I say defensively, like my brain hasn’t just been immolated by a thousand terrible, wonderful memories.
“And even if she is, maybe it’s time you showed her that you’re over…whatever it was that happened. You’re one of the biggest names in the industry right now—this is your playground too. You can’t hide from everything forever.”
I take my time answering, fussing with the lighting board stand far longer than necessary. But when I do answer, it’s only two words. “You’re right.”
This satisfies Tanner. “Of course, I’m right. I’m always right. I was right about tacos for breakfast this morning and I am right about Vida’s party. You go, impress everyone with your smile and your dick, and you make Raven regret the day she left you.”
Tanner makes it sound so easy, so direct, and for a moment, I see it in my head the way I would film it. An establishing shot of Vida’s modernist mansion, richly lit, scored by something low but catchy. Me, laughing, making other people laugh. Raven, glowering alone into a glass of mid-range white wine. There would be a moment—closely tracked, carefully scored—where I would pass her on the way to somewhere, the balcony maybe. And she would lift her eyes to mine, and see the easygoing confidence I’m famous for, and nothing else. She wouldn’t see the empty Scotch bottles or that night I saw Goldfinger three times in a row at a classic movie theater because I couldn’t bear the thought of going home to an empty house. No, she would see the real Logan, the new Logan. The Logan who was about to kick everybody’s ass (and then come all over those asses afterwards.)
Adrenaline pumps through me. For three months, my life has been a cycle of fucking, filming, and editing. I’ve only seen my friends if they happened to be part of my filming and fucking cycle. But tonight, all of that is going to change. Tonight, I’m going to take back my old life.
“Get the girls,” I tell Tanner with a grin as I unbutton my jeans. “I’m ready.”
Tonight, Logan O’Toole will finally come back from the land of the brokenhearted.
Two
I can't even.
And not just because my mother is in the middle of naked yoga in front of me. I did just drop in, so I’m the one interrupting her routine, and normally her ritualistic meditation practices don't faze me. I’m used to her. She's my mother, after all.
But it is rather hard to concentrate on the bill in my hands from the student loan department when my mother's hoo-ha is right at eye level while she's in downward dog. Especially with a bush as full as hers. I respect my mother’s hippie liberal ways and totally support the female form in its natural state, but I’m not convinced that Eve didn’t do a bit of pruning first thing after she threw that apple core to the ground.
It’s because I’m proud to be a woman that I spend so much time waxing and plucking. I know, I know, different strokes for different folks and all that jazz.
At the moment, it feels awfully apropos to be faced with her asshole when I’ve just discovered that life is dealing me a pile of shit. Goodbye new apartment in El Segundo. I can’t even. This is terrible.
I must have said that last part out loud, because a second later my mother interrupts her ohms to ask, “What’s terrible, Dev?”
“Everything,” I answer. “Everything is terrible.”
“’Whatever words we utter should be chosen with care for people will hear them and be influenced by them for good or ill.’” She’s quoting Buddha. I swear that in a lifetime of being her daughter, less than fifty percent of everything she’s ever said to me has been original.
I wish my words would influence her to stop her routine and tell me how to get out of the financial mess I seem to be in. Why did I decide to stop by to pick up my mail today anyway? I could have continued through the rest of the week, blissfully unaware that my one semester at UCLA was coming back to haunt me.
I look up as my mother moves into half downward dog, and immediately regret it. Shielding my eyes, I groan, “Mâmân, do you mind?”
As she glides into her next pose, she glances back at me and whatever she sees causes her to shriek—ironic considering that I’m the one watching a fifty-year-old woman doing naked yoga.
“Devi!” she exclaims. “Your aura’s so murky it’s practically black! Sit down, sit down. I’ll get you some turmeric juice and then give you a Reiki treatment.”
“Thanks, but I think I just need to talk for a minute.” At least I’m now the focus of her attention. That’s the way with my mother—she’s either oblivious or doting. There’s nothing in between.
“Nonsense.” She’s already pouring me a glass of her favorite elixir. “If you could see what I’m seeing, you’d know how badly your life energy needs healing.”
“Actually, what needs healing is my bank account.”
“’Contentment is the greatest wealth,’” my dad says, coming in from the kitchen, the grass beads in the doorway clacking together as they fall behind him.
I try not to roll my eyes. “I bet Buddha would have thought differently if he’d had student loans,” I mutter.
“Student loans?” my mother asks as she sets the turmeric juice in front of me, her voice rising with a hint of hopefulness.
“Are you enrolling in school again?” My father’s tone matches my mother’s.
I’m tempted to be annoyed—I know they only want what’s best for me.
But if I’m annoyed at anyone, it’s myself. It shouldn’t be so goddamned hard to decide on a major, but somehow it is. It’s not that I don’t have any scholarly interests—I’m actually intrigued by a great many things. Just, committing to one subject and choosing it as a career is, well, daunting.
“Not yet, Bâbâ. Soon. But not yet.” Soon. I hope that’s not a lie.
“You’ll figure it out,” he says with a reassuring smile that almost makes me forget the terribleness of the paper in front of me. “You have your whole life to decide.”
One of the most unbelievably amazing things about my parents is how completely they support everything I do. Even when they disagree with my choices, they smile and cheer me on wholeheartedly. As long as I’m doing what makes me happy, they’re all for it.
My mother ushers me to sit down at the kitchen table, then moves behind me, and even though I can’t see her, I know she’s stroking the air above me, wiping the negative energy from my aura. Meanwhile, my father places a hand on my shoulder, channeling positive energy into my body.
I take a deep breath and sigh. This isn’t what I need right now, but this is how they show their love, and it's the only way I’ll keep their attention.
“Another deep breath, and then tell us what’s troubling you.” My father’s accent slips out as it often does when he’s practicing holistic medicine, even though he hasn’t lived in Iran since he was ten. I love hearing it just as I love every snippet of Persian heritage he’s passed on to me, including his coloring—dark hair, amber eyes, and olive skin. The “ethnic look,” as my agent calls it, has gotten me a decent amount of work in the erotic modeling business. Well, that and my willingness to shed my clothes in front of a camera like it’s no big de
al, another attribute of mine I credit to my parents. For as long as I can remember, they’ve instilled in me the notion that bodies are most beautiful in their natural state. While I’m more conservative than they are, I can be nude without the slightest bit of self-consciousness.
I do as my father has requested and fill my lungs with air. Then I release it. “It’s my student loans. My deferment has expired.”
“Ah,” my parents say in unison.
Another incredible thing about my parents is how in sync they are. Perhaps it’s a side effect of doing everything together, and I mean everything. They work together, they cook together, they clean together. If my father wasn’t recovering from a strained groin muscle, he would have been alongside my mother doing her yoga au natural. Though I often poke fun at them for it, I hope to one day have a relationship with someone just like theirs. Perhaps with more clothing involved.
My father moves his hand to the base of my neck. “If you go back to school, won’t the deferment kick in again?”
“Yes. But I still have no idea what I’d study. I also can’t afford a payment like this—” I wave the bill in the air. “Not on top of my apartment.” I was only able to afford moving out six months ago. My modeling jobs pay well, but not support-myself-in-California well.
“You know your room is always waiting for you.” My mother would be happy if I lived with her forever. But, as much as I love my folks, a child has to spread her wings.
“I really don’t think moving back home is the answer.” Besides, living with them put a serious damper on my social life. Any time I brought a guy home for a nightcap, my parents would descend upon us with mushroom tea, pot brownies, and endless tips on how to achieve the best climax. They consider themselves experts in Tantric sex and aren’t at all shy about sharing their personal experiences. It’s awkward, to say the least.
Not that there’s been a guy that I’ve wanted to bring home in a long time. The majority of my orgasms in the last year have come manually while watching Logan O’Toole porn. I imagine for a moment how he’d react to meeting my parents. Surely, he’s the one person who wouldn’t flinch at their carnal tales. God knows he could top any story they told.
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