Asarotica

by Asa Akira

  Aaron continued to chop, and I started to worry I had said too much. Was I being selfish? I had always told him that I really wanted a normal life outside of porn. Just that, my version of a normal life included porn, stripping, having a boyfriend, in addition to the occasional vagina. I mean, that was totally normal, right?

  To my surprise, Aaron was incredibly turned on by it. The thing was, because my previous boyfriend—despite being a porn star himself—considered any kind of interaction with anyone offcamera (including iMessaging) cheating, my expectations of men and their egomaniacal needs were pretty low.

  God, I really just sounded like a lesbian there.

  Upon the realization that my boyfriend was just the perfect level of freak for me, I wanted to find the perfect female for us to share. Most people wouldn’t believe me if I told them, but I had a hard time finding women to have sex with. Really, I did!

  You see, I’d reached this status in the porn industry where people seemed to really respect me. And while respect is nice . . . sex is better.

  I was a director. Directors typically weren’t supposed to hit on the talent—it was generally considered bad porn etiquette. If a male director randomly texted a girl who was talent and asked her to come over and fuck, well, that was considered creepy. That was the kind of thing that made girls quit porn, then appear in a documentary one day crying about it. Or maybe they would go through with it and say, “Well I thought I had to, because he was the director.”

  The negative stigma around all us big bad producers and directors made me quite awkward and hesitant to admit to a girl that I want to throw her against the wall and eat her pussy without any cameras around. It figured—despite being in porn, I could probably get away with being more sexually inappropriate as a general manager at Applebee’s.

  “Well, you fuck girls all the time on camera,” one might argue, but one would be wrong. In fact, I performed very few lesbian scenes because I developed a large following of people who loved seeing me with multiple cocks in and around my face. As a producer of my own content, I had to be very strategic with what kind of sex I should spend my money on, and every time I did choose to spend money on a vagina in my face, it tended to be a loss. People generally related “girl with lots of tattoos” with “girl who should have at least two cocks inside her at all times.” And that was all great—I was a fan of two cocks, three cocks, even four cocks, but I truly did love vagina.

  I needed it every once in a while.

  Being a porn star at the age of thirty-five, I adhered to a strict diet to keep my body camera-appropriate. But once a week, I treated myself to several slices of expensive artisanal cheese. It stopped me from going insane. I felt the same way about vagina.

  I was asked to attend a particular adult convention that was taking place at a bunch of strip clubs. Most porn conventions are just like regular conventions. They take place in giant expo halls filled with vendors’ booths selling their products—only instead of the products being, like, hot tubs, dental equipment, and comic books, it’s porn companies and porn stars selling their movies, autographs, and photos. Like flea markets, but with more tits.

  This particular “convention” was different. The company that ran this event did advertising campaigns for strip clubs, so the entire event was held at different gentlemen’s clubs throughout Tampa, Florida. Basically, I was more or less told that my “job” for the weekend was to hang out at strip clubs and get drunk.

  Producing and directing and performing and running my own company was incredibly time consuming and I had to be selective about the events I chose to attend. Plus, I had a boyfriend that I actually liked. Even loved, perhaps. I tried to spend the little amount of free time that I had with him. And this was an unpaid gig with minimal exposure that would require me to stay up way past my bedtime. But when I was told that my assigned roommate for the trip would be Aiden, there was no question. If vaginas were my cheese, then Aiden’s pussy was like a Triple Créme Brie that you could only get from a local market in the countryside of France.

  I had met Aiden on a couple of occasions, as both a fellow porn performer and regular person. Her relationship status was always rather complicated because she had a girlfriend, and two boyfriends, and all of these relationships were incredibly intense and—how do I put this?—oddly monogamous. At least two of her three partners fucked only her, and the third was still somehow seriously committed. But though she was most definitely dating all of them, her dance card was clearly full, so I did what any other creepy porn director would do in my situation: I booked her to perform a gratuitous sex scene, with me. So technically, we had sex once. But it was on camera. It counts, but . . . it doesn’t count. I’m not quite sure how else to explain it. I was greedy and wanted more and I was about 99.9999999 percent certain that she did too.

  Now, my boyfriend jerked off to the scene numerous times. He loved it. Every time I would leave town—or the house for a few hours—the scene was always queued up on his computer. He told me he loved the faces and the sounds I made when she ate my pussy, like they were a completely new set of orgasms to which he hadn’t been introduced. The chemistry I had with her excited him, and she excited me in general, and exciting him excited me. So to say the least, knowing I could have her all to myself for a full weekend as a roommate would complete this circle of exciting things I had going on here.

  The first night Aiden and I were in Tampa, we did our, um, “jobs.” We caravanned to a strip club and hung out with about thirty other porn stars. Things remained playful and innocent. Together we drank watered-down vodka drinks, made out, tipped strippers, made out some more, and then posted some pathetically offbeat six-second twerking videos to Vine, the only place you could post instantaneous video to the internet at the time.

  It was basically the Stone Age.

  When we got back to our shared hotel room, we kissed, but ultimately, we went to our respective beds, and I drifted off to sleep as she proceeded to call all three of her paramours to say good night.

  The next day, beside the pool, she talked to me about her relationship problems. She confessed that she was sick of everyone falling in love with her, and desperately wanted someone to fuck her and not get attached. I told her I could very easily find not one, but two people who could do that quite happily. She giggled with excitement. I texted my boyfriend who was in Los Angeles and told him to find the fastest way to get to Tampa, Florida. Within two hours, he was on a plane.

  Meanwhile, Aiden and I returned to the strip club. The kisses between us that evening were longer, heavier, and with more tongue. The more we kissed, the more our hands started wandering down each other’s thighs. My boyfriend came to meet us straight from the airport. I barely got through the introductions when he showed up, “Aiden meet my boyfriend, Aaron—” She grabbed his cock immediately while she and I proceeded to sloppily kiss each other like we were attempting to eat each others faces.

  Part of my job that evening was to strip on stage for a few songs. As I climbed the pole and whipped my hair around to Pantera, Aiden and Aaron sat by the stage, Aiden giving Aaron a sly under-the-pants and under-the-stage handjob.

  So, like I was saying, as Aaron continued to enjoy his undercover handjob by the stage, he turned towards Aiden to kiss her, but Aiden pushed his head back in the other direction. “Don’t look at me, just look at Joanna on stage.” She then began touching herself while maintaining her stroke. And like I said, I felt I could be crowned queen of sex at that moment.

  Aaron wasn’t having a bad evening, either, coming straight from the airport to a strip club, where a handjob awaited him on arrival. But he hadn’t eaten, so as soon as we got back to the hotel room, as Aiden and I were tearing off each other’s already ripped fishnets and microscopic lace dresses, he surreptitiously ordered a pizza doing his best to not distract us.

  He quickly hung up and jumped in. Aiden and I took turns sucking his cock and I pushed her head down on it as far as she could possibly go. We gig
gled and laughed and fought over his cock. We gathered up all the saliva in our bodies and spit it into each other’s mouths, onto his dick, and then back into our mouths. Aiden pushed me down and licked my pussy, finding my clit like she came prepared with a map and directions on how to get there. Aaron fucked her from behind and she belted out a strong orgasm while I simultaneously came in her mouth. I wasn’t sure if Aaron was having sex with Aiden and me, or if Aaron and I were having sex with Aiden

  It’s difficult to find a perfect threesome partner when you’re in a relationship. Just because I am a porn star it doesn’t mean I don’t get jealous, and if I start to feel like my relationship is being disrespected, my fluid sexual energy becomes cold and frigid. It’s hard to put my finger on exactly when those moments happen but they do. One strange kiss, one off look in someone’s eyes, can kill the threesome’s Feng Shui. On this occasion, however, it was a beautiful musical of tits and ass and pussy working together in perfect harmony.

  Aiden’s pussy was fucked to the point where it was just quivering and couldn’t accept any more dick. He then plunged his cock inside me. Like always, Aaron’s cock fit like a glove. My vagina was all, “Welcome home, cock!” He fucked and fucked, and then …

  The phone rang.

  The pizza had arrived.

  “You guys keep doing what you’re doing,” he said gleefully. “I’ll be back!”

  Aaron threw on some jeans that barely fit over his boner and ran downstairs. I licked Aiden’s pussy and shoved my fingers in and out of her, and all the while, we just couldn’t stop kissing. Aaron ran back into the room, threw the pizza box on the floor, ripped his pants off, and jumped back in.

  We attempted to resume with the same energy we had before, but we were all moving a little bit slower, the smell of pizza wafting through the air taking precedence over the wafting pussy. We simultaneously came to a stop, everyone thinking the same thing.

  “Let’s eat some pizza,” Aiden said.

  After that brief intermission we got back into it. I came several more times, and then, eventually, Aaron finished in both of our mouths—a tasty combination of tomato sauce, mozzarella cheese, and jizz.

  Aiden smiled, giggled, and jumped off the bed, reaching again for the pizza box. She grabbed one of the few remaining slices for herself and handed me and Aaron the rest. She scampered off into her own respective bed just a few feet away from ours. We ate the remainder of our pizza, watching episodes of Married with Children as our bodies drifted into a sex-and-carbs-induced slumber.

  Aiden left early in the morning and returned home to her trifecta of monogamy. We still hang out every once in awhile when the stars align properly (or improperly, depending on the way you look at it), but our night in Tampa will always be remembered as the night my 60-percent-lesbian was happiest.

  GLASS AGAINST NIGHT

  BY KAYDEN KROSS

  That night brought me back to him. My car eased into his driveway as I pushed my tongue into the cut where the blood had run and hit the chassis on the curb. I thought about the ways blood might have gotten there. One way was me. The rip along the lining of my cheek matched the shape of my teeth.

  My car rolled forward, crunching birch leaves blackly in the tracks where the tires tread. I turned the key back. The headlights clicked off first and then the cabin light. Bushes pushed up dark veils beyond the window, and the house was speared against the side of a cliff. The driveway sloped down. I pushed my foot into the parking brake and stared into the black shadowed mass just before me. He was in there, somewhere, maybe a part of it. All of the lights were out but the moon was up, cutting in and out between the clouds. I used the glow to find a footpath.

  Past the gravel there were stepping stones and then a system of steps that descended towards a door whose color wasn’t clear even in the light that pushed down as the clouds moved or in the gleam at the door where brass glinted in the sweep. I raised my fist. The door felt like the stone front of a tomb. What was his life like behind it? With a small palm I choked my hair at the neck and pushed the weight of it back behind my shoulder, shuddering when it swung at the low place where my skin dipped against my spine. I tucked my chin down and waited, wondering what this man does in these times, alone, left to drop the civilities and the affects and just be a body with small and mundane bodily tasks and small and mundane human thoughts. Was he human in the messy ways? From the hills just beyond, a pack of coyotes sang sharply skyward of its kill. Still further lay mountains jutting black and skyward too, and somewhere just behind them the moon was pulling waves up from the sea. Each was in the midst of some beggar’s blind bid toward ascension. You could see it down to the details, in the daytime as salt turned to crystal in the heat waves. You could see it in the ruptures pushing out gas from the mountaintops and in the notes in the throats of each predator sending off mythos and the souls of prey. That was the year I made my bid, too. I raised a fist again. The door pushed in where it hit.

  Inside, the air was still. The space was expansive and dark save a faint umber gloss straining outward from the mouth of a room at the end of a hall, the likely spill of one low recessed light in his bedroom ceiling. The light was one set so that all that could be seen of another person was a slight glint in the eyes and the curves and planes of the flesh. The light was his choosing. The rays waned indifferently onto the tile, moving smoothly forward in measured squares. They gave off the telltale deception of a structure stuck in time, of muddled origin, still as a dried river or some past god’s great cathedral floor. Where I walked I watched it extend under my feet and past me, spreading gently away from my center in every direction. My feet made no noise. I followed the light through the length of the hall and through his bedroom door. I cast a shadow without an edge.

  He stood with his back to me, shirtless, busied with his phone. His hair was black against the moonlight that outlined the bodily way it moved when he did, outlined the lines and bulges of his shoulders, the taper at his waist, the heavy biceps that pulled the device away and pressed it back against his ear between the space where he spoke to me. He nodded dismissively in the direction of another door off the other end of the room. Behind him, the wall facing the mountains was made of glass.

  He said, “Get in the shower.”

  His eyes were black too, though in the light they became a vital brown that sparked beneath the shadow of his brow. His frame was tall, his lips thick. I pushed off my shoes and my clothes and padded barefoot over stone that faded from amber now to a clouded marble in the moonlight. They steamed up faintly around the shape of my foot and dissolved again. The night was cold. I noticed my skin against the air, white too now in the moonlight, and my ankles lifting my feet from their steps. My ankles were thin.

  The faucet turned easily. The walls there were the continued length of the glass that faced the mountainside. Another coyote offered its song up from the rocks, and then there were more. They faded out. With spread fingers I checked the temperature as the water ran rivulets along my wrist. Another twist of the hardware and the shower-head streamed. Hot wet drops fell out in ropes. The water made a low-tunneled noise.

  His fingers slipping through my hair were the first sign that he was there. They spread out widely and pushed until his palm pressed up flush with my skull. In another moment they snapped back, locking my hair into his grip. He wrapped the length across his fist, and then again, laying it flat and tight across the knuckles. His wrists were deliberate. They exposed my face. Where the shower water hit on tile, it sprayed back up. I was wet at the ankles, wet up the legs, wet with the drops that clung to the hair that rose when I shuddered. He brought me to his mouth. His lips pushed us down beneath the water and his tongue pushed down into my throat. The space was empty of air. When he pulled back I sucked in my breath as he tilted my face towards the window. Slanting moonlight hit thick streams against my skin. He held my chin with a finger, a fist still gripped in my hair, as he guided my face from side to side. He pushed my chin up and the plane
s were smooth. They turned to blue in the curves. Time slowed as he examined me, tilted me, decided on me, and then the seconds accelerated again and brought us present as his grip tightened and his eyes locked on mine.

  One of us blinked. There was the force of sound and heat and of air as he shifted behind me, pressing his skin against my skin, at my throat locked in the crook of his arm so that my head lifted back and pressing at the cartilage in a way that his slightest move was the difference between my breathing and not. I couldn’t see him but I felt where he watched me. My hands rested on his arms, the fingers soft. There was no struggle. The air was still cool against the skin. He reached down to his belt and pulled it loose, leather sliding through each hoop with a sound of release and the metal on the buckle clinking thinly against itself. He made no other noise. Then his hand was in my hair again, my body dragged along behind his grip while in the other grip he dragged the belt. I came stumbling into the position he dropped me, eyelevel now with the unbuttoned front of his pants, ear pressed against his hip, cool marble at my knees. Water still thrashed in hard streams in the background, and black mountains looked on from a distance through the glass. We faced his bed. With a flick of his wrist I was spun around at the base, his grip knotted in my hair. The belt drifted its dead leather end across my lap as he used the buckle to open my jaw, pressing metal between my lips. I opened. He shifted back and then pushed into me. Repeatedly and forcefully he shoved me throat-first down onto the destructive length that emerged from him, steadfast, the shift throwing me off balance and deeper down, my ass forced up as he doubled the leather and unleashed its whips down the length of me, each blow pushing me forward and pulling up thickly strung spit and each break rocking me back off enough to grasp at air and arch back up for more.