by Donna Alam
‘Fast Girl Media, eh? In your browser. Downloaded the app.’ Will looks fucking delighted. ‘A little too much soft lighting and artsy frames for my taste, but whatever floats your boat. You must’ve cracked the seal in spectacular style. A toast is in order!’ He takes one of the small tumblers of whisky the peroxide-haired Tracey had deposited in front of me.
‘To getting your end away,’ he declares, raising his glass.
‘I’ll fucking end you,’ I grumble, the tips of my ears beginning to sting.
‘Pay him no mind.’ Mac slaps my shoulder. ‘Y’ken that little things please little minds.’
‘That must be why he’s always playing with himself,’ I retort in a grumble.
‘Unlike some people, I don’t need to play with myself. That is, unless a certain lady, who shall remain nameless, feels like she wants to watch me take myself in hand.’
‘Fuckin’ boundaries,’ Mac growls. ‘I’ll need bleach.’
‘What for? Your arsehole?’
‘Seriously,’ I supply. ‘This discussion is less fun than putting lotion on wee Sorcha’s spots.’
‘And speaking of spots . . . ’ I know what’s coming before he says it, my eyes falling closed as I prepare myself. ‘Who, pray tell, is Paisley?’
‘What has Paisley got to do with spots?’ Mac butts in.
‘They’re both patterns.’ Will shrugs quickly.
‘So you thought you’d go through my contacts as well? Is nothing fucking sacred?’ I add.
‘But no man is an island,’ Will says, chuckling. ‘Or something. Plus, she was the only one in your contacts with a heart after her name. Sweet boy,’ he adds, pinching my cheek.
‘Get off.’ I push his hand away. ‘She put her own name in the thing.’
‘Tell us about your second cherry poppin’, and we’ll leave you alone.’
‘You’re on your own there,’ Mac grumbles to Will. ‘I don’t need the details.’
‘Fucking sweetie wives, the pair of you,’ I respond, using the Scots slang for gossip mongers.
‘It was the wedding yesterday, wasn’t it?’ Will says. ‘Didn’t I tell you it would be the perfect place to hookup? I suppose it also explains why your game was subpar today. It’s what happens when you don’t clean the pipes out enough.’
I really have no answer for that wee gem, so ignoring Will’s assumptions and Mac’s continued chuckling, I down my whisky, pleased at least that he didn’t order the cheap stuff.
‘Get me another would you, Tracey?’ I gesture at my glass, and Tracey nods. I’m not driving, so I may as well.
‘Fine. You don’t need to tell us. I mean, we’re only your mates—only the best mates in the world. Isn’t that right, Mac?’
‘Your best interests at heart,’ he replies, patting his chest where his heart should be. It makes me wonder exactly how much he’s had to drink.
‘I’m pleased my life is keeping you both entertained.’
‘We’d be happier if you told us a little bit about her,’ Mac replies evenly. ‘It’s not all about takin’ the piss.’
‘Look,’ I begin reluctantly and through almost gritted teeth. ‘She works for Fast Girl Media, okay?’
‘She’s in porn?’
‘Jesus.’ Mac wipes a hand down his face, though I’m not sure if it’s a reaction to Will yelling the word “porn” in this spit-and-sawdust pub, or the fact that he now thinks I’ve fucked a porn star.
‘No, she’s not in porn,’ I almost growl defensively, though whether on behalf of her or me, it’s hard to tell. ‘At least, not like that.’
‘What other way is there to be in porn?’ Mac asks. ‘Other than starring in it or being into it.’
‘Her mate owns the company. As far as I can tell, she does a bit of admin and makeup.’
‘Makeup?’ they answer in unison.
‘Aye. She’s a makeup artist by trade.’
‘Oh,’ Will answers, then, ‘Oh!’ This one sounds more like a revelation. ‘That answers her text, then.’
‘She hasn’t sent me a text,’ I scoff, swiping my phone from the bar. ‘She doesn’t have my number.’
‘She does now,’ answers Mac.
Chapter 12
PAISLEY
‘Paisley? Could you grab the bounce board for me, sweetie?’
Standing in the kitchen area of the very gorgeous open-plan apartment we’re filming in today, I’m in the middle of making myself a cup of tea when Chastity calls me—on location, no less—from fabulous Barcelona. The apartment in the gothic quarter is nothing short of gorgeous—exposed pale stonework and marble floors, the space filled with sunlight spilling in from a pair of ornate French doors. There’s even a private balcony, which, I’m told, is rare in this ancient part of the city.
Chastity chose well because privacy is the key. No one filming or being filmed in this afternoon’s outdoor sequence wants to draw a crowd. Or be catcalled from nearby windows. Or find themselves the subject of an elderly lady’s showering of holy water and cries of Dios mío!
I’m told this has happened before.
Grabbing the folding reflector, I make my way into the lounge to where Antonio— yes, interview Antonio—has one foot on the floor and his knee on the chair that his partner for the day, Tianka, is kneeling on. It’s odd that I take in their positions before actually registering that the pair are naked.
‘Great,’ Chas says as I hold the silver reflector thingy up. ‘If you could just stand there . . . that’s it. Up a little bit? It’s just to diffuse the light.’
I hold the thing in front of me while he pretends to hump a very bored looking Tia from behind. Chas, meanwhile, takes some technical readings. Something to do with light ratios or something.
‘Right. We’re just about ready to go. Antonio?’ Of course, we all look at him and then at his flaccid member. Because it doesn’t look very ready. Or very happy. Though it still looks pretty big.
‘I’ll be there now, in a minute, beaut,’ he replies, his gaze flicking up from his crotch because, in the absence of a fluffer—and I’m not sure that fluffer is a job that really exists—Antonio is currently . . . playing with his man-meat.
I raise the reflector over my face, basically hiding behind it. And so much for thinking Keir couldn’t be Antonio Uccello because of his Scots accent because this Antonio doesn’t sound very Italian, either. Unless there’s an Italy in Cardiff. That’s Wales, FYI. His accent is sort of singsong-y with peaks and troughs of tone. But not very Italian.
And I don’t know how I could’ve confused Keir for him—Keir’s like Ben & Jerry’s Karamel Sutra to Antonio’s generic vanilla. Not that I suppose being an adult actor is considered vanilla. But there’s no comparison.
‘That’s a proper tidy result, that is.’
Antonio’s voice brings me back to the moment. I lower the reflector, unprepared to find him talking about his penis. I quickly raise it again because I’m not sure if he’s looking for a congratulations or a round of applause. Also, I need something to hide my giggles behind.
This current moment aside, it’s not like I’ve been present during much filming so far, which means I still struggle to school my expression and remain impassive at the best of times. Sometimes, I feel like someone with Tourette’s syndrome, struggling against the impulse to expel words. I see Dick! Cock! Penis!
I find myself turning bright red as the actors screw. Screw in front of me. Or make an idiot of myself as I tilt my head to the side, wondering how a particular angle works. And then there are the times I just feel ill. The smell of those flavoured lubes turns my stomach some days.
But it’s a job, and it both pays my bills plus it helps my friend out. She tells me she likes having me around. The funny thing is, before Robin fucked his assistant’s assistant, I’d never even watched porn—if you discount Tumblr—never mind watched real live people get it on. It’s not that I’m a prude or anything, but it has been a bit of a culture shock—much more so than when I moved to the
UK.
I stifle a yawn as the sound of slapping skin fills the room. I was up late last night. Or rather, Keir was. And when I woke this morning, just as I’d expected, he was gone. I didn’t feel bad about the evening or the experience—quite the opposite as I’d sprawled out in the huge bed and the mass of wrinkled sheets like a starfish, relishing the aches he left me with. And I was okay with waking up alone. I think the act of balancing life and a child must be a pretty difficult one.
It’s strange that I barely know him, but I can totally see him as a dad. Maybe because he’d stood up to Robin for me, or some other act of chivalry I don’t recall. Or maybe I’m just too tired to think straight.
I’m not the only one exhausted, I think as my gaze slides to Chastity. Though she was very close mouthed about her own evening, she’d fallen asleep before our plane had even reached the runway. Also, she has the gait of a woman well tended to in bed. And isn’t that a euphemism unsuitable for a porn set.
‘Oh. Oooohhh! Yes! Like that.’
Tianka’s moans sound totally legit, somehow making my mind wander to last night. Keir might not make his living with his penis, but he absolutely could. The man had moves women would pay to see. Plus, all those hard muscles and that delicious confidence? He’d be a popular one for sure. Not that I’d suggest it to him. Not in a million years.
‘Can you move to the sofa, Tia, darling? Yes, on your back.’
I’m pretty sure most porn isn’t produced the way Fast Girl Media works. For starters, Chastity has a pretty small crew. None of the usual job descriptions you see at the end of a movie’s credits. No gaffer, no grips, no crew. It’s all very small scale, but her work is beautiful, obviously so, even to a novice like me.
‘Paisley, can you cover the pimple on Antonio’s lovely derrière?’
‘What?’ I’m brought back from my musing, my thoughts coming back to earth with a bump.
‘Antonio . . . he has a spot on his bottom.’
Oh, the glamour of my job.
I conceal his pimple, throw away yet another makeup sponge, and make a mental note to order more when we get back to London. Wondering how long we have left with regards to light, I slide my phone from the back pocket of my skinny jeans to check the time and realise I have a text. I swipe the screen, registering the unknown number. Which can only mean . . .
Butterflies take flight in my stomach—and a little farther down—as I open my messages.
What are you doing today, gorgeous?
Smiling widely, I type back a response without thought. Such glamourous stuff like you wouldn’t believe. Like hiding pimples on places other than faces, I’m not going to say.
Send me something sexy, his immediate response reads.
A sudden blast of ice freezes the butterflies, sending them thudding to the ground. Really. That’s what he sends me? After the glorious night we had?
My first instinct is that this isn’t from Keir. I mean, I hardly expected him to be in contact so soon, given everything we said. I hoped, of course I did, but I thought he’d have to talk himself into seeing me again. Which he totally would. The experience was too good not to repeat.
But when all is said and done, I can’t kid myself. The chances of this being a mistake or some random looking for kicks is slim. And, as Occam’s razor would demand, the simplest explanation is that Keir has sent me a request for a . . . what? Tit pic? A crotch shot?
That’s just . . .
‘What’s up, sweetie?’ Chas enters the kitchen, swiping a bottle of water from the tiled worktop.
‘That’s just so . . . disappointing!’ I huff, handing her my phone.
She looks at it, then me. ‘The guy from last night?’
‘I thought he was different.’
‘On the strength of one evening?’
‘On the strength of a lot of things that happened. But yes, on one evening. Does that make me really stupid?’ Even I can hear how pitiful I sound.
‘Not stupid,’ Chas answers, placing my phone on the worktop and cracking the lid on her water. ‘Maybe hopeful. Like the rest of us.’
‘What is hopeful?’ Tianka says, entering the kitchen area next. Thankfully, she’s pulled on a white robe. Adult actors and actresses seem very comfortable in their own skins.
‘Hey, Tia,’ I say in greeting. Because, you know, she has clothes on now, so it’s totally fine to do so, and this kind of greeting does not incur a furious blush. ‘Not what is hopeful, I suppose, but who. And that who would be me.’
Tianka looks on confused, causing Chas to explain.
‘She slept with a guy who seemed nice.’
‘All men seem nice in the beginning,’ Tia scoffs with an air of superiority and a flick of one elegant hand. Tall and milky skinned, Tia has a very improbable shade of red hair. She could totally work regular speaking parts with her smoky voice and a rich Eastern European accent. Not that she’s mute during Chastity’s movies. No, she’s quite, ahem, vocal. Anyway, she’s totally got the bad Bond girl thing going on. ‘And what has the nice man done to make a mistake?’
‘He’s just asked me for a picture.’ I shrug, a little uncomfortable. ‘You know. A naked picture.’
‘Like snatch-chat?’
‘I think that’s Snapchat.’
She waves my response away. ‘Bah! Always so juvenile, these men. Take my advice and find an older man. They are more grateful for your time.’ Wow. That sounds a little . . . paid for by the hour. Or is it just me? ‘Also, they are not so demanding, Viagra or not.’
‘Or I could give him the benefit of the doubt?’ I suggest aloud . . . much to the amusement of my companions.
‘He asked for a dirty picture. I guarantee there’ll be a cock shot on your phone within three minutes of you sending him yours.’
‘I’m not going to send him a picture of my boobs or anything!’
‘Why not?’ Tia asks. ‘You have nice breasts.’ I find myself turning beet red as I bat away her outstretched hand.
‘Maybe you should send him a cock shot,’ Chastity says suddenly.
‘I told you, I’m not sending any dirty pictures. Besides, I don’t know whether you’ve noticed,’ I respond, waving my hand in the general area of my crotch, ‘but I don’t actually have one of those.’
‘But Chastity has one. Paid in advance, I think.’ Tia’s head turns to the living room where Antonio sits in a wicker chair, touching his unresponsive penis.
‘He’ll rub himself raw,’ I say to no one in particular.
‘He needed a personal break,’ Chas says as if that makes perfect sense.
‘Antonio,’ Tianka calls, catching the man’s attention. ‘Penis is very unhappy today.’
‘I never have this problem, see,’ he says, dipping his head to his lap again. It doesn’t hide his worried expression. ‘I can always get it up.’
‘Everyone has moments like these,’ Chas placates from beside me. ‘Not to worry. You brought pills, yeah?’
‘I did, but I don’t like to use them,’ he answers unhappily in his Welsh singsong tone.
‘We don’t have much light left, so I’m afraid we might have to.’ Pushing off from the worktop, Chas walks back towards the living room. The pair exchange a few low spoken words before she comes back again.
‘Here,’ she says, handing me back my phone. The phone I didn’t realise she’d taken. ‘Send him this with Antonio’s regards.’
I look back at where he sits as naked as a jaybird . . . still with his dick in his hand.
‘I’ll take one for the team, see,’ he calls back, giving me a thumbs-up. ‘Even in the movie industry.’
‘They call it gay for pay,’ Tianka explains. Though I’m not really paying attention as I look down at my phone, swipe the screen, then nearly drop the thing at the image I’m greeted with.
A zoomed in, lubed, though long, flaccid penis.
Chapter 13
KEIR
Send me something sexy.
‘You are a cock of t
he first order,’ I say, draining my pint as I shake my head. ‘She’s going to think I’m a total knob for sending her that.’
‘You should never leave your phone unattended around him,’ Mac cautions, lifting my phone from the bar to read the text.
‘Aye, well, I notice you didn’t stop him,’ I retort.
‘Light-fingered Larry had sent it and was chuckling into his drink before I’d even noticed.’
‘Light-fingered?’ Will begins, aggrieved. ‘Those are some scurrilous accusations. Once upon a time, they’d have landed you in the Tower.’
‘You’re a lord, not the king,’ Mac retorts. ‘And you’re a thieving one at that.’
‘It’s in my blood,’ Will replies with an amiable shrug. ‘What can I say? The landed gentry have been getting away with murder for centuries. Besides, she works for a porn company. I’m sure she’ll have heard much worse.’
‘Her job has no bearing on this,’ I say, pointing my index finger at him. ‘Separate Paisley from whatever dirty smut is going on through that cesspit of a mind—’
‘Paisley is not a name; it’s a tie or a pair of curtains.’
‘Grow the fuck up,’ I find myself snarling in response.
‘Oooh, Keir likes a girl.’ The expression Will’s face suddenly adopts is one that could be solved by a punch.
‘Leave off,’ I growl, turning back to my drink.
‘I think it’s cute. The unflappable Keir has a crush.’
‘I’ll crush your head, you total—’
‘Now, now, lads,’ Mac interjects. ‘I’m sure Lord Travers here can grow up a wee bit, if he really tried. Maybe you should leave it to him to apologise.’
‘Or maybe you’ll apologise to me when you get a little something back via text.’ At almost the same time as Will stops speaking, my phone chimes. ‘You’re welcome, by the way,’ he says smugly, lifting his whisky glass.
‘And fuck you very much still,’ I reply, holding my phone like it’s a small incendiary device. Do I want to look? Of course, I do. Does that make me as bad as him?
