by Asa Akira
“Shoplifting,” I answered as I sat on the bench next to her. “You?”
“Prostitution. My boyfriend about to be real fuckin’ mad, too. I was drivin’ his car tonight.”
I didn’t know how to reply. I had never met a hooker in real life. I had never even met a stripper.
“I called that nigga like five times and he still ain’t pick up. This phone probably a blocked number or somethin’.”
“How did they catch you?” I overexcitedly blurted out.
“Fuck, the police busted my club. I own two clubs uptown; they busted one of ’em last week. I got pulled over, next thing I know I’m here. I was tellin’ my girl on the phone, why the fuck I’m here? I got pull over for speedin’, now I’m in bookings? That ain’t right.”
I was confused why she was in jail. What did her club and speeding have to do with each other? She had said she was here for prostitution, but now it seemed like she just got pulled over. I was captivated.
“You must have crazy stories, huh?” I eagerly asked. We were going to be in here a long while. But things were starting to look up.
She told me she owned an after-hours club with her boyfriend. She and ten other girls hooked from there, but she was the main one. The club had been under investigation for a few months and finally got busted last week. Speeding in her boyfriend’s car tonight, when she got pulled over and turned in her driver’s license, it was expired. Having been arrested just last week for being at the club (she had ultimately been let go by saying she was just a patron), the police were quick to arrest her for driving with a suspended license. That’s the story she told me, and I believed her. I would have believed it if she told me she had teleported here. This woman was the first woman I had ever met in the sex industry. She was my hero.
When she told me she had once posed in Black Tail magazine, I nearly fell off the bench. This was the least number of degrees there had ever been between me and porn.
“I look ratchety now but I clean up real nice, girl,” she assured me.
“What are you talking about? You’re so beautiful.” I meant it.
We continued to talk the entire seventeen hours I was there, except for a small nap we attempted to take a few hours after eating our sandwiches. We exchanged information on where we got our nails done. I liked a marble nail design; she preferred a clean French. When we got cereal for breakfast, she gave me her milk. “That shit make me gassy as fuck,” she told me.
By the time I left, I knew her whole life story. She knew nothing about me except for why I was there.
“It was really, really nice to meet you.” I said to her when my parents’ lawyer, Ezra, finally arrived. As the guard unlocked the gate for me, she looked at me with spite and did the twitchy thing when she blinked.
I left feeling incredibly inspired. “I just met the most amazing woman,” I told Ezra.
“Let’s not tell your mother,” he answered.
As I walked out to appear in front of the judge, I realized I never even got my hero’s name.
7
Art of the Blowbang
“I never said I wouldn’t fuck anybody! I said I wouldn’t fuck EVERYBODY! There’s a FUCKING DIFFERENCE!”
Just something our lovely neighbors can typically hear coming from our balcony on any given night. It’s not even embarrassing anymore, which is pretty shameful in itself. The problem with maintaining a relationship while pursuing a career in porn is that you have all the same problems as any other couple, but also a whole bunch of other bullshit added into the mix.
For the past three years, I’d been doing this series of movies called “Asa Akira Is Insatiable.” It’s difficult to bring these movies up without bragging about them; the first two alone have won about twenty awards. The premise is that I am, you got it, insatiable. Every movie escalates. My first anal and DP scenes were in the first one. In the second one are my first gangbang and double anal scenes. This next one, the third installment, I wanted to do the biggest blowbang I had ever done—eleven guys.
One of the greatest things about Toni is that he’s been in the porn business 20 years. Twenty fucking years. That’s longer than I’ve been having sex. It’s longer than I’ve been giving blowjobs. It’s pretty much longer than I’ve ever done anything, apart from just being alive. Because of this, he didn’t suddenly flip a 180 and freak out over my work like some of the guys I had been with before. He understands it’s my job, and as long as I stay respectful to him and follow a few of his rules, he doesn’t really care.
The main one of those rules is no more gangbangs. I mean, I get it. Who wants their girlfriend to be the girl being passed between ten guys in an abandoned warehouse? We aren’t swingers. Outside of our jobs, we don’t fuck other people. We don’t even have threesomes.
When I brought the idea of the blowbang up to him, Toni was cool with it. It’s funny how everyone draws the line somewhere. In his mind, I wouldn’t be fucking a group of guys, I would only be blowing them—and that was okay.
More than anything, Toni knew this movie was important to me. “Just don’t fuck everybody and turn it into a gangbang. I know that’s been your thing.” This would be my first group scene since we’d been together.
“I won’t! I won’t fuck everyone. I promise. It’s a blowbang.”
I specifically chose these words so that I could hold my own in an argument later, that everyone and anyone were not the same thing. Which, ultimately, I suppose, just proves that I knew I was going to do something wrong all along. (I should add Toni is from Spain, and English is his second language. So I had that on my side as well. I don’t fight fair, I know.)
Toni was right. I had a reputation for losing control in these type of scenes and turning them into all-out fuckfests. Something happens to me when I’m shooting a scene. Not just blowbangs and gangbangs, but any kind of scene. It never fails. I fall in love. Different from the emotional love I feel for Toni, but it’s definitely some kind of chemical reaction in my brain that gets me into that happy place, where I feel passionate, desperate, vulnerable, but all in a good way. It’s as if I’m in love with the situation, not the actual person I’m fucking. As odd as it sounds, porn has always been my dream. The thought of turning people on . . . doing something taboo . . . exposing myself for any perverts’ eyes to see . . . the performance of it all just gets me going.
Once I got to set I knew what I had to do. I pulled the director aside, my friend Sam. “Listen. I promised Toni I wouldn’t fuck everyone. I think I can get away with fucking three.”
“Which ones do you want? I’ll let them know ahead of time, and we’ll tell our other eight friends no sex today.”
“Pete for sure . . . His feelings will be hurt if I don’t choose him. Ralph, too.”
“Okay, and who else? Keep in mind that’s two white guys.”
“Right, right . . . Hooks is black. Let’s do him.”
Going into the scene, I didn’t realize what I was in for, but once we started, I had to get with the program real quick. I had done two blowbangs before, as well as two gangbangs, so I was already familiar with the “cocks everywhere” aspect. The problem was that I had never done a scene in which I was fucking some of the guys, but not all of the guys. Silently, I swore to myself I’d never do a scene like this again.
As a kid, I always sucked at sports. It was just never my thing. My shitty hand-eye coordination, my reluctance to work on a team due to being an only child, my overall lack of physical elegance (I didn’t even start walking until I was two years old), all contributed to my unpopularity in PE. Not to mention my now-ironic fear of balls coming at my face. I was always one of the last to be picked for a team. I knew I sucked.
Basically, this blowbang felt like PE class. And I was the team captain.
Hooks, you can fuck me. No, Eric. Pete, you’re in. Eric, I already said you’re not fucking me today. Snoop, I didn’t choose you. Go on the other side.
In both blowbangs I had done previously, I ende
d up fucking everyone. Mostly because I was so turned on and just wanted to feel a dick in my pussy. But once I had fucked one, I wanted to keep going and fuck two, then three, and by the time you’ve fucked three, it’s just bad manners to not let everyone play. This is secretly something I like about myself—I fantasize going down in history as a whore with a heart of gold.
The blowbang was a mixture of A-list male performers and just-blowbang guys. The blowbang guys are significantly cheaper, which is good when you need quantity, but in a (relatively) smaller blowbang like the one we were shooting, it’s important to mix in some of the top guys to lead the way and ensure that the scene keeps moving—they’re the “quality” in this equation.
As far as male-pornstar taxonomy goes, the A-list guys are at the very top. These are the guys who get to work with the best girls in the business; they have paid their dues and proven themselves to be good performers. I’d say there are only fifteen of them in the business, definitely no more than twenty. Some of them do features, but what every one of these guys must exceed at is Gonzo.
A-listers don’t have issues getting their dick hard, keeping it hard, or popping on command. They are alpha males, always dominant, that can carry a scene and bring energy out of any girl. The ones nominated for “Male Performer of the Year” year after year at the AVN Awards.
Right under the A-list male talent would be the feature guys. Feature guys are the actors of porn. Best known for their acting skills and pretty looks, they aren’t necessarily the best sex performers; sometimes they struggle to keep hard, and it never seems like the sex is the part they most look forward to. Considered to be the most “couple” friendly, they are in shape, tan, and clean-shaven—often, they are mainstream actors and models who lost their way and ended up in porn.
Below the feature boys, I’d say there’s about 50 percent of the male talent pool in a big pile—these are the B- and C-listers. They are the “filler” male performers, who don’t fit into any mold. You see them randomly on set, and work with them a few times throughout your career, but they aren’t particularly memorable. The only time you hear their names is when they are dating someone more famous than themselves, or something crazy happens to them, like their dick breaks when a girls slams down on it too hard during reverse cowgirl.
Finally, at the very bottom are the blowbang guys. Also known as “mopes,” they primarily do blowbangs and gangbangs. I’m talking about the kind of scenes where there is one girl and fifty-plus guys. The “creep” factor is abundantly in play here. Almost guaranteed to be chain smokers, they have prepaid phones and take the bus to location. It’s not totally uncommon for them to be in and out of jail; nor is it uncommon for the director to lend them money to get their required monthly STD test. No one aspires to be a mope. It’s just somewhere you end up.
Aside from the three guys I had chosen to fuck me, the guys for the blowbang scene that day had been told in advance that there would be no non-oral sex happening. But, of course—when they saw the chosen three fucking me, they assumed all bets were off. Imagine what it’s like for a 105-pound girl to try to control eleven juiced-up guys. Now imagine that all those guys are on Viagra, and the girl is on the floor getting railed in her ass. It was a constant merry-go-round of subtly pushing, awkwardly crawling away, turning around to make sure the same three guys were still fucking me. Mind you, this is all while sucking eleven cocks. All while keeping everyone involved. Group scenes are not a selfish sport. There’s no “i” in “blowbang.” When the camera is rolling and that magic thing happens where every single guy is hard, you don’t want to break the momentum and risk guys losing their wood by showing any kind of hostility. Especially the blowbang guys, who aren’t as strong performers.
That day, I left the set patting myself on the back for somehow managing to get through the scene only fucking my three original guys, and all without hurting any feelings. I don’t know which I was more proud of: my self-control, or my ability to coyly avoid fucking eight guys, all while keeping them happily engaged in the scene. Smiling all the way home, I ran a silent conversation in my head in which one Me referred to the other Me as a “master of the fine art of the blowbang.”
A week later Sam called me. “Hey, dude. I’m editing. You want me to cut out the Snoop part, right?” I had no idea what she was talking about.
“Whachu mean?”
“The blowbang. The part where D.Snoop’s fucking you. It’s only a couple minutes long but he’d make our fourth guy. You only wanted three of our friends to have sex, correct?”
I was shocked. I was paying such close attention! I turned around every time a dick had entered me from behind to check who it was, I was sure of it.
“Snoop fucked me? Are you fucking joking me?” I couldn’t help but laugh. That sneaky motherfucker! “Yah, cut it out, please. I can’t believe he was fucking me and I didn’t know!”
“Hey, you didn’t know, it doesn’t count!” I mean she was right. If she had never told me, I never would have known. This was too funny. How did he just slip in?
“It’s the Curious Case of D.Snoop.” I joked.
“The Haunting of Asa Akira.” Sam caught on.
“Snoop the Friendly Ghost. Wait, no. The Invisible Man starring D.Snoop!” Bam, two for one.
“Phantom of the Blowbang.” And the winner is Sam.
I have to say, of all the slutty moments I’ve had in my life, this has to be top-three status. After getting off the phone, I contemplated telling Toni. Would he be mad about it?
At the end of the day, no matter the context, the person I want to share the events of my day with is Toni. There was already the whole misunderstanding about whether or not I told him I wouldn’t fuck anyone at the blowbang. But it was too hilarious not to share, right? We were above fighting over trivial matters—after eighteen years in the business, one little slip of a dick couldn’t possibly upset him. This was a legitimately hilarious story. I mean how many people can say, “I had no idea he fucked me!???”
If there were a category in Guinness World Records for “Sluttiest Thing to Accidentally Happen to a Woman,” this would definitely be in the running.
I decided to chance it for the sake of a laugh.
He didn’t think it was funny.
8
Girls
“Do you think I should tell Katie?” It was two in the afternoon and Mia was over. We were lying on opposite sides of the sofa in stained T-shirts and period underwear, passing back and forth a jar of peanut butter. A rerun of Real Housewives of someplace or another was on the TV but we didn’t pay attention.
“Why not?” I replied. “What does she care if you fucked James or not?”
“She’s trying to cut off her fuckbuddy she’s in love with.”
“Oh shit. Like you’re in it together.”
“Right. She’s watching me.”
Mia was my closest friend in L.A. She always had something going on; if it wasn’t a cokehead boyfriend with babymama drama, it was her ex threatening to kill her from jail. An aspiring actress, she dated my ex-boyfriend after we had broken up. One day I had sent him a naked picture of myself, and she called me from his phone screaming. We’ve been best friends ever since.
“Omission isn’t lying,” I offered as I licked the spoon.
“She’s gonna ask. Fuck it, I’m just gonna tell her I stayed in last night. My sex life is nobody’s business. I’m gonna lie to her—just tell me I’m not a bad person for it.”
I smiled. Mia could rob someone and I would probably justify it as the victim’s fault. In fact, that had happened before.
“You’re not a bad person for it.”
“It’s just he called me last night and was talking about fucking . . . And my pussy got so wet it was bubbling and dripped down to my ass without even being touched. His voice just makes me instantly wet.”
“Like when people hear the word cocaine and instantly have to shit?” We laughed.
“Whatever. He limpdicked m
e half the night anyway.”
James was a nightlife guy Mia had been seeing. He wasn’t her boyfriend, partly because she already had one of those. He was a side piece she had caught feelings for. According to a self-help relationship book I once read, he was a classic “avoidant”—sends mixed signals, afraid to get too close, cold, insensitive, insecure. We were also suspicious he was on something, drug-wise, because his dick went limp all the time.
“It’s so bizarre. I don’t think I like him anymore anyway. Last night I shat on him a little while he was fucking my ass and I didn’t care.”
“If that’s not a sign, I don’t know what is. I’ve been with Toni for how long? And I don’t want him to even know I shit, ever.”
“Yah. I think I would’ve cared two fucks ago.”
It was true. My friend Dave says it best: I’m anal about anal.
I never thought I’d be famous for my asshole. Really, I didn’t. For as long as I can remember, I’ve been infatuated with porn. Growing up a Howard Stern fan, slutty girls were my heroes, somehow glorified in my mind. In movies and books, I was always drawn to the trashiest character in the story; the one who smokes cigarettes, is admittedly promiscuous, and almost always crazy in the most fascinating, brilliant way.
And yet, I never thought I’d be one of those girls. I never thought I’d have the guts.
Never say never.
I never thought I’d actually do porn. If anything, I thought I’d be a teen pregnancy case, divorced by twenty-one, second baby daddy by twenty-three. Possible herpes. I never thought the day would come I’d be labeled “Anal Queen” in every skin rag, or my asshole would win an award.
When I got into the business, I was adamant that I steer clear of anal sex. It was still a somewhat foreign concept to me, and I had this romanticized idea in my head that I should “save” my ass for the special guy who dealt with my crazy neurosis in real life. I thought it would make me relatively good wifey material, not completely used up. In fact, when I signed with my current agent Mark Spiegler, in my long proposal email on why he should represent me I told him one thing I would never do is anal sex on camera.
