“Well, I don’t have porn boobs, so I think I just need to become a dentist or something.”
“Quitter.”
I roll my eyes. “Quitter?”
“Yep. Little bit of resistance and you’re going to take the easy route. Fucking dentist,” she says under her breath.
“Being a dentist is not easy.”
She tosses her hands in the air. “How hard can it be to look at someone’s teeth and drill holes in them?”
“Heather…” The song “Come Down” by Bush blares from across the room, prompting me to get up to find my phone.
“I’m just saying, most celebs hit rock bottom before the make it big. You can’t quit before you’ve even hit rock bottom.”
“Yeah, yeah.” I grab my purse and dig through it.
Heather grumbles as she rolls off of the couch. “I’m going back to bed. My vagina is sore, my head is pounding, and I can’t adult right now.”
My phone is still ringing, and when I pull it from my purse, I see David’s name flashing on the screen.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Jemma…”
“Yeah…”
“So,” he sighs which is never good. “You didn’t get the Vagisil commercial.”
I swallow. Honestly, tears are welling in my eyes right now. This is beyond sad. It was a Vagi-fucking-sil commercial. I could have been out in a club, and a guy could have come up to me and thought—Vagisil girl, but those dreams have been shot to shit.
“Thanks,” I say.
“So, I know you need some money. I have a friend—a director friend—that needs a new PA.”
My ears perk up, and I suck back the tears. “Really?”
“Yeah, uh, Hudson Matthews, you heard of him?”
“Sounds familiar.”
“Well,” he says. “He wants you to send him your resume. He knows you may have auditions and is willing to be flexible, so it’s kinda ideal. I’ll text you his email, okay?”
I shake my head even though he can’t see me. “Thanks, David.”
“Yeah, no problem…but hey, look him up first okay. Make sure you’re okay with it, but he’ll pay you well.”
“Yeah, sure thing.”
I hang up the phone and lie down, closing my eyes to take a nap and deny that my one shot at my dream has gone to shit. Fuck men. Fuck sex. And fuck amateur porn.
“Hudson Matthew Productions,” I say to Heather as I power up my laptop. “Does that sound familiar to you?”
“It rings a bell…”
“I swear I’ve heard it before.”
She shrugs. “Please let it be the company that films Sons of Anarchy.”
“Yeah, right.”
I follow the link to the company’s website, and the second the screen pops up, my jaw drops a little.
“I told you…” Heather laughs. “Everything happens for a reason. This is a sign, Jemma.”
I stare at the screen. Pictures of women bent over taking it up the ass. Girl on girl. Vaginas. Vaginas. Vaginas.
“Jesus, David. Really?” I mumble beneath my breath.
“Fairytale Princess to Porn Queen.” She smirks. “It’s better to be a queen than a princess any day.”
“It’s a PA spot, not an acting role.”
“You are seriously going to be a fucking fluffer?” She pats me on the back.
“It’s not a fluffer, it’s an assistant.”
She rolls her eyes and laughs. “Yeah, because what would they need you to assist with? Holding clothes, wiping splooge off cocks? Oh, my God, Jemma—what if they want you to help clean up the aftermath of a group scene.”
“Uh, I’m not touching anybody’s semen.” I stare at the screen and laugh. “Well, at least it won’t be boring…”
“I wonder if you get to watch the scenes?”
I shrug. “Maybe…”
“Holy shit. I’d stay so fucking horny. Instead of cigarette breaks, I bet they give you masturbation breaks.”
“Porn stars, huh? I mean, you gotta have some level of respect for them. The level of self-confidence one must have to show their asshole to the world…”
“Right.”
We sit staring at the screen for a few seconds, then Heather taps my arm. “You tell them if they need an extra fluffer that you have a friend.”
“Fluffers are not real, Heather.”
She pouts. “Take all the fun out of it would you?”
I’m nervous as shit. I’ve already taken two wrong turns, and I keep wondering if this is a sign that I should just turn around and go home. I swerve to take a right hand turn, and as soon as I do, I’m greeted by a large, white office building.
I swallow as I pull into the lot and park my car between a Land Rover Sport and a BMW. A quick check of my lipstick, a spritz of some perfume, and I step out into the dry heat of the San Fernando Valley. I feel uncomfortably out of place in this pencil skirt and dress jacket, and I’m not even sure this is the correct attire for this kind of job—but what would be? As I approach the entrance, I catch my reflection and almost laugh. This business look doesn’t suit me at all.
What kind of company doesn’t have their name plastered on the front of the building? I glance at the tinted, double glass doors—no name on the door. And for a second, I hesitate. I have that weird feeling in the pit of my stomach. That overwhelming sense of impending doom.
Just when I think maybe I should say screw it and go back home before I get sold into sex slavery, a Barbie Doll blonde brushes past me. Holding the door open, she glances over her shoulder. “You coming in?”
“Sorry, I was just…wasn’t sure I was in the right place,” I say, following her through the door. Inside, everything is white. There’s not one piece of art hung on the walls, and all that’s in front of me is a narrow corridor leading to an open room.
A slight smirk plays across her face as she looks at my clothing. “Hmmm, pretty dressed up.”
“Oh,” I tug at the hem of my stiff jacket. “I’m here for an interview.”
Her gaze narrows and her smile broadens. “Really?”
“Yes.”
“For a role?”
“Uh, no. No, for a personal assistant.”
“Oh…” She laughs. “About to say, what role, a secretary?” She stops midstride, one eye narrowing. “You look familiar…”
“Yeah…” Swallowing, a nervous laugh bubbles through my lips. “I get that a lot.” Please don’t start singing “Let It Go”.
“No, like really, really familiar.” She shrugs and then resumes walking.
“Um, where is Mr. Matthews’ office?”
“Mr. Who…oh, oh, you mean Hud? His office is on the third floor. All the offices are on the third floor.” She points at the elevator. “But maybe I should show you before you end up in the wrong place.”
She goes to the elevator, presses the button, and we stand in awkward silence. My eyes keep straying over toward her. This girl is a porn star. She fucks guys for money. Rams their massive cocks down her throat and has them jizz on her face. It’s not every day you find yourself standing next to someone you know screws people for a living. I kind of want to ask her questions like what the hell is up with all those high pitched fake moans, I mean, let’s be honest, no one sounds like that, but I imagine that wouldn’t really be appropriate, so instead, I stare at the floor.
When the stainless steel doors slide open, two men wearing jeans and tight t-shirts walk out. The taller one smacks the girl on the ass as we step inside. “Hope you stretched for later, doll,” he says, winking, and she laughs. This is so fucking weird.
A few seconds later we’re heading down another long hallway. She leads me to the end, stopping in front of a slightly cracked door.
“Hey, Hud,” she taps on the door. “The girl for the PA spot’s here.”
“Okay.”
Silence. She shrugs.
“You gonna come in?” I bristle because his voice sounds like an angry bear.
“Well, good luck,” she says as she spins around and trots off.
The hinges creak as I push the door open and step into the office. The desk is positioned in front a large floor to ceiling window, and the man sitting at it is silhouetted by the bright sun pouring in. I squint against the bright light.
“Oh, my bad,” he says and reaches behind him to close the blinds.
I don’t know what I imagined the guru of the porn industry to look like, but this is not it. At. All. This guy is scrawny and younger than I expected. His reddish-brown hair is a mess on top of his head, and it looks like he hasn’t taken a razor to his face in a few days.
“Jemma, please, have a seat.” He motions toward the chair in front of the desk and take a seat.
Hudson’s eyes flick over me, a slight smirk flashing over his lips. After a few seconds of silence, that smirk widens into a mischievous smile. That uneasy feeling stirs back to life in the pit of my stomach. I cross my legs. I can’t help but scratch at my neck. I clear my throat.
One of his brows arches, creating tiny expression lines on his forehead. “Do you know what company this is?”
“Um, yes… I do.”
“I bet you do.” Another gross smirk.
Something about this man seems so perverse, so sick and twisted, and I’m starting to think this is not such a great idea after all. Maybe I should keep trying my luck with the fucking commercials. “I’m sorry, I think maybe I should…um…” When I lean down to grab my purse, he burst out in laughter.
“Relax, chicken. I’m not the Big Bad Wolf. I’m a professional man…” He opens a desk drawer and pulls out a piece of paper. “Before I can discuss things with you, I just need you to sign this waiver so I know you aren’t going to sue my ass for offending you or sexual harassment or some shit like that.” He tosses the paper across the desk, and I stare down at it. “Sorry,” he says, “I only have one for the actors, but the legal implications are the same…well, except for the second interview, but I don’t do second interviews for clerical positions.”
I pick the piece of paper up and read over the print:
Hudson Matthew Productions, LLC
Waiver of sexual harassment
Initial Interview
Actor
I, __________, understand that the information I am about to be presented with is confidential. I am aware that if I agree to continue with this interview, there may be topics I find offensive and/or inappropriate. I understand that no part of my body will be touched, and I will not be asked to remove any clothing, nor perform any sexual acts. I understand that if at any time I feel uncomfortable and do not wish to continue with the interview process, I may simply say so and leave.
In the event that I am asked to disrobe or touched in a sexual manner, this waiver becomes null and void. This clause only applies to the first interview. I understand that if I am asked to return for a second interview, another waiver will need to be signed at that time.
__________________
Printed name
_______________________________
Signature Date
“Any questions,” he asks.
I shake my head, and he hands a silver pen to me.
“My assistant had to take early maternity leave, so you’re helping me out of a bind here. I’ll pay you well. David told me you’d be going on auditions, so I’ll be flexible with your time.” He arches both brows. “And anytime you want to audition for one of my movies, just say the word. I would love to have Elsa get plowed by Kristoff.”
I laugh too loudly because is he serious right now?
Taking the pen from his hand, my gaze drops back to the waiver. “So…” I swallow. “I’d just do stuff for you, like professional—administrative stuff.” I’ve heard fluffers don’t exist, but I’m not taking a chance with that. I am not giving some random guy head between takes to keep his dick up.
“Well, I mean, what I deem professional may not be professional to you, chicken. Professionalism in an industry where it’s common courtesy to come on your coworker is a little different, you know?” He nods toward the waiver. “But we can start the interview and discuss all the details of the job once you sign on that little line.”
“…and then I figure maybe tie her up or some shit…not like BDSM shit, just you know…” I sit staring at the wall. Hudson’s running his mouth about some shit he wants to be done on the next scene, but I can’t focus on him. It takes him ten minutes to say what most people can get out in thirty seconds.
“Johnny!”
“Huh?” When I look up, he’s staring at me.
“What are you, fucking high? No drugs in the building guys.”
“No, I’m not high. I just zoned out.”
“Well, zone back in. You and Vee have another scene tomorrow, and you and Brandi are gonna have one on Tuesday.”
“Okay,” I shrug.
Hudson sits back down behind his desk, pulls out the keyboard, and furiously types over the keys before flipping the monitor around to face me. “Look at that!”
I stare at the frozen video of me fucking one of the girls. “Okay,” I say, “what am I looking at?”
“Look at the hits on that video.”
I narrow my gaze on the numbers at the bottom. “Holy shit, does that say two million?”
“It does. Uploaded it a few days ago.” He laughs and claps his hands together. “I knew you’d be the next big one. Women love the way you talk to those girls. It’s like you’re fucking in love with them or some shit. Personally, I never would have thought about it. I would have told you to call ‘em dirty little whores or something, but you’re a natural. Johnny Depth is the next big cock. I’d say it’s only a matter of time before a few dildo companies are asking for a mold of your dick.” He cocks a brow. “And they pay good money for cock casts.”
“Whoa.” I hold my hands up. “A cast of my cock?”
“Yeah, it’s no big deal. You just stick your dick in this tube of goop and let it set up and then they manufacture a million dildos out of it.” He smiles. “Then all your fans can ride your dick while they watch you. It’s brilliant, and we’ll make some nice royalties off it for sure.”
“That’s crazy.”
“Yeah, well, people are crazy, you know? Oh,” he grabs a folder from the edge of his desk, takes out a piece of paper and slides it across to me. “Tests came back. All negative.”
I swallow and grab the slip of paper. “Thanks.” This is when it hits me a little. I guess I should be glad they test us every few weeks, but still, it gives me a sick feeling in my stomach.
“See you tomorrow around noon.”
“Yeah, sure thing, Hud.”
I leave the office and head to the elevator, cramming my test results in my pocket before the doors slide open. Brandi’s inside and she smiles the second she sees me.
“Hey,” she says with that annoying lilt of hers.
“Hey.”
“So, we are finally getting a scene together. I’m so excited.”
I nod. “Yeah. Should be fun.”
“Oh, it totally will.”
The button for the first floor lights up, and we both step off.
“Hey, Johnny,” she says. “Want to go grab lunch or something?”
I stare at her for a moment. She’s a pretty girl, a really pretty girl. “Nah, I gotta get home, but thanks.” I push the door open and hold it for her.
“Just wanted to ask…” she says before heading toward her car.
I’m not trying to get involved with anyone from this fucking place, that’s for fucking sure.
Jemma’s Facebook page. Everything is set to private, so I’m just sitting here like a fucking creepy bastard staring at her profile picture. All I’ve done since the other night is think about her, about how fucking strange it is that we ran into each other. And I can’t help but wonder why she got up and left the way she did. I get that I hurt her. I get that’s she pissed, but we were friends for years, and she fucked m
e. I don’t get women at all. They give me a goddamn migraine.
I open a message request and stare at the blinking cursor. What the hell do I say?
Jemma,
It was good to see you the other night
Fuck that. Delete.
Jemma,
I wish you hadn’t of left without—
Oh, God, you fucking pussy. Backspace. Backspace. Backspace. Inhaling, I drag my hands down my face. I’m overcomplicating this.
Titch,
I do miss you.
Tyler
Just a few words, but I know her, and that’s enough. I press send and lean back in the chair. A few seconds later my messenger dings, but it’s not Jemma. Nope, there in my inbox from Billy Jones, is the fourth dick pic for the evening. In the message, it reads: If you ever want to be deep, down inside a real man.
I delete the message and block Billy Jones then stare at the unseen message to Jemma, wondering how in the fucking hell I am ever going to tell her what I do for a living.
Everyone has sex—except for monks and nuns.
Hell, most people watch porn from time to time, so you’d think it would be no big deal to watch some people screw in front of you. I mean, everyone has that slutty friend in college that ends up having sex with some random guy in the dorm room while you’re trying to sleep. But for some reason, I’m making this out to be a big deal. I think it’s because all I’ve been focused on is having to watch someone take it up the butt, and the thought of that just makes me cringe. It’s just two consensual adults having sex. Doing a job. Naked. In front of a camera. No big deal, Jemma. I say as I’m escorted through a marble foyer. The guy who answered the door looks like an old perv. His greasy, dandruff-flaked grey hair is pulled back into a ponytail. He’s hunched over and is wearing a tie-died t shirt and Birkenstocks with socks. He looks like he was probably a roadie with The Grateful Dead.
“First day, huh?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
“Fluffer?”
“What? No, I’m the assistant.”
He laughs as his gaze cuts over at me. “Yeah, okay. That’s what Hud’s calling it these days—assistant?”
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