“Yes. And no. It’s frustrating that anyone with a handheld can make a porno now. There are so many shitty homemade sex tapes, how can a regular Joe Schmo find anything with quality?
“But gonzo isn’t completely terrible,” he says, referring to the style of filming that puts the cinematographer in the production. “There are so many good things about it. The camera angles, the intimacy, the spontaneity—all of those are qualities that have advanced the industry and made it more accessible to the average Internet subscriber. So, what’s missing from today’s porn that should be brought back? Not the production costs. Or the bad acting. Storylines? John Stagliano insists that his films, even though they’re gonzo style, have a story. And they do, but they’re like the movies from the past. The plots are weak and unbelievable, and yes, I know they’re supposed to be fantasies, but tell me, do you know anyone whose fantasy is Debbie Does Dallas?”
He pauses just long enough for me to shake my head. “Exactly. So we need to keep the camera techniques, the intimate filming quality, and the tight budget, and then get better actors and plots.”
I’m transfixed as he talks about this thing he’s obviously so passionate about, and while I’m hanging on every word, I’m also somewhere outside of myself, watching this man who is so nerdy and sexy and nothing at all like the “typical” porn star. He doesn’t even have the look of the traditional film leads. He’s toned but slim, not at all beefy like Rocco Siffredi or Bruce Venture, or hyper-masculine like Manuel Ferrara. Logan’s clean-cut, tattoo-free, and baby-faced, and maybe that’s why he’s such a force right now—because he’s fresh and different and real.
Well, that, and also, he’s a giver.
It strikes me that of everything there is to be attracted to about Logan, this is his sexiest part—this part of him I’m seeing now. This part of him that cares about his work beyond the sex. This part of him that isn’t just physicality, but also emotion and heart.
“Then would you rather that more of the work you do is scripted?” I ask. The movies Logan produces already walk the line between improvised and plotted out. While the scenes themselves seem to be organic, they always begin with a monologue that he writes himself. It’s another original aspect of his work.
“Hiring a good scriptwriter costs too much, so that’s not the way to go. But reality TV has proven stories can be interesting when not scripted.”
“But those situations aren’t really ‘real.’” I wonder if this is strange first date conversation. I’ve never gone out with someone else in the business, so my experience is narrow. “Those reality shows are all staged. Encouraged.”
He sits forward, eager. “Right! The producers put together characters with whatever chemistry they’re going after because they know that, based simply on psychology and human behavior, the ‘actors’ will react to each other in a way that’s entertaining to watch.”
He leans back in his chair again. “I mean, look at The Bachelor and The Bachelorette. People go crazy over watching men and women ‘fall for each other’ in real time.” He uses air quotes as he says fall for each other suggesting he believes, as I do, that very little that happens on reality shows is genuine. “Imagine if we could capture that essence.”
I squint my eyes as I follow his line of thought. “Then you’re suggesting porn do The Bachelor?”
“Not a game show. But, yeah. A camera following a man and a woman over a series of dates. The sexual activity would be encouraged to progress at a natural pace and would be completely open door. Explicit. Hot. But it all happens organically, and if feelings develop between them, even better.”
“That’s actually a brilliant idea.” I’ve never spent much time thinking about where porn could or should go, but hearing Logan talk about it is really inspiring. “It’s cutting edge and yet right in line with where the trends are heading.”
“That’s what I think.” He meets my eyes, and I have to concentrate to not squirm in my chair. His gaze is so hot and intense and demanding. It’s as if he wants something from me, and if I knew what it was, I have a feeling I’d hand it over without a second thought.
“So what do you say?” he asks after a beat.
“What do I say about—wait.” Everything starts to click into place. “Are you actually proposing this project?”
“Yeah.”
“To me?”
“Yes. I am.”
Then this isn’t a date.
And the conversation wasn’t candid and real; it was the preamble to this proposal.
I’m stunned. And speechless. Mostly because I’m disappointed.
But then he says, “I’m asking you if you’d like to be part of a revolution that takes the industry by storm,” and I can’t be quite as disappointed as I was because, even though this isn’t a date, it’s an opportunity. An opportunity to move into the het world. To make more money. To do more work with Logan.
To have more sex with Logan.
Take the industry by storm. Is it fate that he’s used the same words that LaRue Hagen used?
I’m flattered and flustered. The whole thing is surreal, and I don’t know what to say.
“Devi? What are you thinking?”
Before I can answer, I have to know, “Why wouldn’t you ask someone with more experience? I haven’t even done any het porn since the scene we did. Why me?”
I expect it’s because of my inexperience. A project like this is best with a newbie that could be groomed along the way. My ethnicity probably helps too. If he’s trying to be forward-thinking, an ethnically diverse cast is the way to go. And if LaRue Hagen is right, my career is poised to “break out.” Naturally other directors would notice.
But he doesn’t give any of those answers as his reasons. Instead his features grow somber and his eyes serious, and he says, “I want it to feel authentic.”
“What?” I’m so surprised that the word falls out, breathy and astounded.
“I want it to be real,” he says sheepishly. “As real as possible. So.”
I don’t know what to say. I don’t want to say anything and ruin this incredible, awesome, strange, surreal moment. I mean, I’m in. How can I not be? But I’m still so flabbergasted that I can’t answer right away.
Then he grins that charming crooked grin of his, the one that makes my knees shake, even when I’m sitting down. “Come on, Devi Dare,” he says, and it’s like he’s purring. “Make porn with me.”
And that’s how I go from a stable career of girl-on-girl to making an arty, dirty reality show with a porn star.
Eight
One Week Later
Devi lives in El Segundo, in a stamp-sized bungalow that’s been awkwardly chopped into two apartments. And despite the tidy landscaping and fresh paint, I notice that she locks no less than four locks before she skips down the driveway to my car. I knew the kind of porn she did paid less, but I guess I never realized how much less, and I immediately feel a wave of weirdness about my massive house up in Laurel Canyon and even the car I’m in right now. It’s a Shelby Mustang Super Snake, and while it didn’t cost as much as most the other cars I see in the Hills, it would still be a few years’ worth of rent in a place like this.
But there’s no weirdness at all on Devi’s face as she opens the door and slides inside. “Nice car,” she says with genuine admiration, running her fingertips along the sleek dash. Her hair is in long beachy waves, tumbling over her shoulders and down to her waist, and she wears the shortest denim shorts I’ve ever seen, exposing long expanses of tanned and toned leg. I follow those legs up from her flat leather sandals, over the elegant curve of her calf, and up to her thighs, those firm slopes of muscle leading up to her juicy ass—which is only barely covered by the shorts.
I see the slightest hint of pink in her cheeks when she realizes I’m staring at her body, but I don’t stop. Instead, I move my gaze up to her chest, where a thin orange tank top drapes low over her chest. She’s wearing a light blue bra, the kind of bra that says first d
ate, the kind of bra that doesn’t anticipate sex but wouldn’t shy away from it either.
She’s this complete package of fun and summer and sex, of the girl next door and the girl of my dreams, and I want to pull her into my lap and kiss her neck while she straddles me. I want to wind my fingers in her hair and leave a trail of marks from her neck to her tits, and then I want to fuck her until she’s trembling with the need for release, and then I want to give it to her...again and again and again. I shift in my seat, my dick now hard and insistent, and I resist the urge to start rubbing it through my jeans.
“See something you like?” she teases.
“Yeah, I do,” I answer honestly. I meet her eyes without a trace of a smile on my face, and that pink flush deepens, and suddenly I am plunged back into Vida’s pool, desperately wanting to kiss her and also knowing I would be a giant tool for doing it.
Get it together, Logan. This is still a scene, no matter how little sex you have tonight, so act like a goddamned professional. Not for the first time since I pitched the idea to Marieke, I wonder what my real motivations are here. This is supposed to be a scene, a fantasy, a fake date, and I told myself if I really wanted it to work, it needed to be with a woman I had chemistry with.
But what if I’m only doing this because I want to be close to Devi?
Because I do want to be close to Devi. A lot.
But how can I be sure that I’m really ready for that, that I’m not going after Devi as part of some rebound agenda? She deserves better than that. She deserves to be sought after because she’s perfect, not because I hate my ex-girlfriend and the loneliness that chases me since she left. I want to give Devi what she deserves. I just don’t know if I can yet.
Focus, goddammit. You need her for this project to be amazing and you can’t scare her off.
Tonight is supposed to be our first shoot, our first fake date, and I want everything to be perfect, I want everything to feel real, but I also don’t want to freak Devi out with how real things are inside of me right now. But still. Even just knowing that our project is going to lead to sex, that at some point next week or the week after or the week after that, I will fuck Devi Dare—I feel like my skin is about to combust.
Focus.
I reach over and grab her seatbelt, buckling her in the seat, the backs of my fingers brushing against her breasts as I bring the strap over and down and click it into place.
She shivers.
“We haven’t even started filming yet, and already you’re starting with the foreplay,” she jokes weakly, trying to scrub the goose bumps off her arms.
“I’m always on the clock,” I joke back, equally weakly, hoping she can’t sense the conflicted desire pounding through my veins. I turn my body back to the front, start the car and shift into reverse. Soon, we’re on our way north, driving through the city and towards Pasadena.
“So where are we going?” Devi asks, reaching forward to fiddle with my radio.
“A movie in the park,” I say, a little proud of myself for coming up with this great date idea. “Zombie double-feature: Night of the Living Dead and Shaun of the Dead.”
She wrinkles her nose. “Isn’t Night of the Living Dead really old?”
“Old?” I sputter. “I think the word you’re looking for is classic!”
She giggles at my indignation, and it’s been so long since I’ve made a woman really, truly laugh, and oh my God, I told her there wouldn’t be any sex tonight and how am I going to hold myself to that?
I start talking about the movies to keep myself from saying or doing something stupid (namely confessing that I’ve had this crazy thing for her for years and that I beat off to her porn almost every night.)
By the time we get to the park, I’ve given Devi a forty-five minute lecture about the zombie film genre, ranging from Romero to James Bond to a little gem called Zombie Strippers.
“You should open your own film school,” Devi says as I park the car and pull my camera bag from the back.
“I don’t know enough,” I admit. “I need to go to film school.”
“Then why don’t you?” she asks, sweetly puzzled, and I realize that I don’t have an answer for that, actually. Other than money and convenience and the fear of failure and the fact that when you fall into doing something, it’s so hard to fall out of it. I mumble something about not having enough time, and I’m glad she can’t see my face as I look down at the bag.
“Okay,” I say. “I’m going to start filming now, but don’t worry about what you say or what you do. I was planning on tonight ending with our first kiss, but I’m not married to that idea, because I think it’s better if the night has its own flow and rhythm and doesn’t feel forced. And remember, I can edit anything out that I need to, so there’s no pressure to get this right the first time.”
“I think you just want to take me on more dates,” she laughs, and God, I hope I’m not that transparent. Because I do want to take her on more dates. I want to bring her home. I even want to introduce her to my fucking family, and she can’t know that, or she’ll think I’m a stalker for sure.
So I just flash her a big smile, and say, “I bet I could make more dates worth your while.”
I press a couple buttons, fiddle with a handful of settings, and then I get out of the car and walk around the front, opening the door on her side. I take her hand and help her out, and she’s so beautiful in the hot evening light, sun-kissed and happy. My dick, which dozed off during the impromptu session of Logan’s Zombie Classroom, wakes right up as she stretches and her tank top rides just above the low waist of her shorts, exposing a sliver of golden skin. God, those thighs with those surfing and hiking muscles, and those breasts, so full and high and perky all at once.
It hits me all of a sudden how young she is, only twenty-one, just barely out of girlhood. There’s something so fresh about her, so unsullied, and then I remember her sucking me off when she was eighteen, remember how I was thinking the same thing then too. That it should feel wrong to be almost a decade older, that it should be wrong for a man my age to cradle the face of a barely-legal girl and fill her mouth with my dick, but help me, sweet baby Jesus, the wrongness only made it better.
When I finally speak, my voice has a subtle rasp to it. “Devi,” I say, “won’t you say hi?”
Devi waves, a little shyly, which is perfect, and I turn the camera to face myself. “I’m Logan O’Toole, and I’m here tonight to take this cute girl on a date. We met a few years ago, doing a job together, and then we reconnected...where was it, Devi?”
She plays along. “At a party a few weeks ago. You jumped into the pool with all of your clothes on.”
“Well, I was drunk.”
“You were drunk. And then I told you about a constellation and you didn’t fall asleep, so I decided that you were a good guy. And I gave you my number.”
I like this version of our meeting. It doesn’t mention anything about Raven or about our aborted kiss; it makes it sound like we are just two normal people with normal jobs who go on dates in all the normal ways.
We banter back and forth as I unload the blankets and cooler out of the trunk, and then we search out a good spot with a view of the screen and a little privacy and no bees. (I’m allergic, but I don’t mention it to Devi; in my experience, the minute you mention you’re allergic to bees, people start mentally replaying that scene from My Girl, and that scene’s a bit of a boner-shrinker to be honest.)
I have her film me spreading out the blanket and arranging our cushions, and by then, it’s time for the movie to start, so I turn off the camera for a little while.
“Would you like some champagne?” I ask.
“Yes, please.”
I dig out the champagne and get to work, and then I have one of those surreal moments, one of those moments that feels so perfectly scripted and blocked that it feels like a movie instead of real life. The pop of the cork and the dull clack of the plastic wine glasses that are mostly drowned out by the murmurin
g moviegoers and the wind ruffling through the palm trees and scrubby evergreens. The screen in front of us, where the black and white film shows a blonde girl running down a dirt road to escape a suit-clad zombie. The brass-heavy soundtrack blaring through the speakers, and the evening breeze light and warm on our skin. Devi’s hand hovering in mid-air, paused in the act of reaching for her glass, her face tilted up to the screen and her eyes wide and her lips parted in total absorption.
I watch her watching the movie, a smile tugging at my lips. She gives a little yip of surprise when the zombie bangs against the window of the farmhouse the girl is hiding in, and then she follows that with a self-conscious laugh, glancing over at me in embarrassment.
“Don’t feel bad,” I say, handing her the plastic cup of champagne. “It’s only a fifty-year-old movie and you’re sitting in a sunshine-filled park with five hundred other people. Any sane person would be scared in your position.”
She sticks out her tongue at me, playful and somehow still inciting lust in me at the same time because I remember exactly how that tongue felt on my cock three years ago.
“Careful sticking that tongue out there,” I mock-warn. “Somebody might try to put it to good use.”
She blows a raspberry at me and then turns her attention back to the movie screen, taking a drink of champagne. Within a few moments, she’s gasping at the jump-scares again, jump scares that are clumsy and old and haven’t actually scared people since 1968, if they scared them even them.
But Devi is completely caught up in the movie, gnawing on her lip as the main characters fortify the farmhouse, shuddering whenever a zombie shambles into view. I’ve seen this movie at least fifty times in my life, but watching it again with her is like watching it for the first time, and I remember seeing it as an eight-year-old boy late at night when my parents had friends over to play cards and had given me free rein in the basement with the VCR. I remember the fear, the anxiety, the constant assessment of whether or not I would survive if the zombies came and surrounded a house I was in.
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