Read the studies if you don’t believe me.
But, see, arousal is not the same as sexual orientation. Arousal is something that occurs on a physiological level. It’s natural. Base. Primal.
Sexual lifestyle is determined by things that are harder to measure and explain—cultural conditioning, emotional attachment, socio-economic factors, religious affiliation. That’s a much more controversial topic to delve into, and all I’m going to say on that matter is that the way I was raised has a lot to do with how I feel about sex.
But I’m getting ahead of myself.
The point is if we’re going by physical arousal, research suggests that women are most certainly never completely straight. We’re turned on by varying degrees of both male and female sexual stimuli. And why wouldn’t we be? We’re wired to procreate, but we’re also wired to seek pleasure. There’s so much pleasure in the female form—their hips, their breasts, their lips. Women are soft and beautiful and sexy in ways that men just aren’t.
So if the studies show that women are aroused from viewing same-sex stimuli, then how much more aroused are they going to be if they have a physical encounter? Then the stimulus becomes more than just sight and sound. Now it’s also touch and scent and taste. Say what you will about the gender you would prefer to get it on with; if you were blindfolded, could you honestly tell the difference between a man stroking your hair and a woman? Both feel good. And feels good is feels good. What gets in the way of enjoying it is all mental.
I told you it was a long answer.
Maybe a better answer is the explanation of how I got started in this business. Short answer is, “I blame my parents.”
Long answer is, “No, I mean, I really blame my parents.”
From as early as I can remember, I was taught that bodies are beautiful and sex is natural. It was practically a daily prayer, one that my parents strove to reflect in their daily lives. Before I’d hit puberty, I’d been exposed to so many different variations of free love and nudist living that I had no chance of growing up to be a woman afraid of showing a little skin.
Let me be clear—it wasn’t like my parents were harmfully inappropriate. Sure they were lax about the amount of clothing they wore in my presence, but I wasn’t molested or forced to participate in sixties-style orgies. I was actually taught very firmly to respect bodies—others’ and mine.. I was taught consent. I was exposed to people engaged in liberal lifestyles, and both my mother and father were very open about sex and the human form.
So when I was seventeen and approached by an erotic modeling agent, I figured, why not? Bodies are beautiful. Sex is natural. And erotic modeling sounded a whole hell of a lot better than any of the other job options I had. For those first shoots, I’d had to dodge the question of my age, but it brought in decent money, money that might have gone further if I hadn’t spent the entire summer after high school backpacking through Europe.
One day after I’d returned from my extended vacation and I was bemoaning the cost of a college education, my agent said, “You know, there’s more money in erotic pictures when they’re movies. And there’s more money in movies when you’re having sex.”
Again, I figured, why not?
I started with a couple of masturbation shoots, both of which went smoothly. Hell, I got a vibrator for my fourteenth birthday; I was already a pro at masturbation. Then I was offered my first girl-girl scene—a finger-fuck and pussy-lick. I was to be the receiver. Except for the heavy petting I’d done with Teresa Murray at her sixteenth birthday sleepover—we were young, we were curious—I’d never had any lesbian experience.
But Teresa had been pretty fun to make-out with, and if she’d wanted to go down on me, I’d have let her. Feels good is feels good.
So I accepted the job. And that’s when I discovered that yes, I could definitely be aroused by another woman. I booked a few more scenes and discovered that for me, lesbian sex wasn’t like the sex I’d had with my boyfriends. This was more primitive. My body reacted, but my emotions didn’t get involved. Part of me wondered if it was because of the camera. Part of me wondered if maybe I was really into women after all.
I’d done four girl-girl shoots before my threesome with Raven and Logan. And that’s when I learned that (a) I could still have feelings, even in front of a camera, and (b) I was definitely straight. Or, at least, I was straight for Logan O’Toole. That man did things to me…and not just physical things, but mental things. Emotional things. Spiritual things, even. After that scene was over, I was twisted inside for days. My head was wrapped up in Logan. He invaded my entire being like a virus. Like he was in my bloodstream. Like he was a rash that made me itch on the inside.
I cashed that paycheck, glad for the experience, and went back to filming strictly girl-girl. I’d recovered from Logan, for the most part, after a week or two of pining. But I didn’t know if my reaction had been to the hetero sex or to Logan. I didn’t have enough experience to be sure, and I wasn’t interested in collecting the data to find out. It seemed safer to just stick to what I knew.
I’m not quite that honest when he asks me why I haven’t done any het porn since the shoot with him and Raven. He’s asked once before; this time it’s for the camera. “I realized it was cleaner.”
“Cleaner? As in, no cum shots to clean up?”
I pause my eyeliner application to chuckle. He’s filming me while I get ready for a girl-girl scene I booked with a producer I’ve worked with several times before. Logan decided it would be great footage for the Lelie project, seeing me “at work,” so he got permission to shoot while I’m prepping. Like most of the films I do, this one is low-budget. We’re shooting in a studio that’s tucked inside an infrequently patronized strip mall in West Hollywood. It was formerly an artist’s studio. My dressing room consists of a cracked mirror hung above a leaky basin that looks like it was used to clean paintbrushes, but it’s private and has a door that closes and locks, and that’s what’s important.
It’s silly, but even though the set is shit compared to the ones Logan usually works on, I’m excited for him to be here. I’m excited for him to see me at my job. Of course he understands what I do better than any other guy I’ve slept with, but he hasn’t seen me do what I do since the shoot three years ago.
Well, except for what we’ve shot for Star-Crossed. But that’s different.
“I meant cleaner in the figurative sense. I’ve learned that I’m a woman who, like all women, is easily aroused by various stimuli but prefers to have relationships with men. Even though I can have a good time making out with another girl, I only ever fall in love with boys.” I focus unnecessarily hard on my lipstick application as I say this last part. We’ve said we like each other, and that’s all I’m ready to say for the moment. But I mentioned the L word because I want him to know this about me—want him to know that there’s no danger of me having an emotional connection to Kendi Korn, my scene partner for the day.
Of course, telling him this might make it harder to justify my het scene with LaRue Hagen’s studio booked for later today, but I’m not thinking about that right now.
“So, you consider yourself straight, even though you lick pussy all day? Do you fake all your orgasms, or…?”
“Actually, since I mostly film soft porn, it’s kissing that I do all day—I only lick pussy in the afternoons.” In my periphery, I don’t miss Logan adjusting his pants. “I’m straight because I’m only drawn to men off-camera. But, biologically, I’m perfectly capable of having an orgasm with a woman.” I turn to deliver my next line directly to the camera. “And I’ve never had to fake it.”
Logan groans. “You know what you’re doing to me, don’t you? It’s going to take all my strength not to jack-off while you’re filming.”
“I’m pretty sure that will get you kicked off set.” It would be crazy hot, though, knowing he was jerking off while I was performing, knowing he was stroking himself, pretending that my lips or my body were around him. If I weren’t conc
erned about either of us getting in trouble, I’d suggest he do it, and, admittedly, the idea of breaking the rules makes the whole scenario even hotter. Like when we’d fucked the night before at the gallery—I’d been leery because of the consequences, because the last thing I want is for Logan to face charges for indecent exposure. It could have an extremely negative impact on his career, and I would hate myself if I were partly to blame for anything like that.
But, Jesus, last night, knowing we were doing something so “wrong,” so naughty—it about blew my mind. And then Logan actually did blow my mind. Over and over again, with the sex and the talk of making it real, and the way he was super cool with my mom, and taking me to an art show based on constellations! And then telling me he wants to try to be my boyfriend—whatever is going on between us is magical and amazing and big, and I’m really into it.
But I have doubts too. I can’t figure out if they’re based in my head or my heart, but they’re definitely there. I’ve tried to rationalize through it and haven’t gotten very far. On the one hand, he makes porn for a living. On the other, that doesn’t mean he’s necessarily a playboy—he was with Raven for three years, after all. But their breakup is still new. So maybe I’m his rebound girl. Or maybe I’m the girl he was really looking for when he started dating her. Or maybe he’s like this with everyone. Maybe what we have between us is nothing special.
Or maybe it is. Maybe he is. Maybe I am. He sure makes it feel like I am.
I could probably spend an entire lunar synodic cycle trying to figure it out and still not be any closer to knowing.
And, that’s probably best. Because I admire Logan’s skills, and I, as a viewer of his work, love believing that he’s into the women he fucks as much as it looks like he is.
But as the woman he fucked last night? As the woman who he’s calling his sort-of girlfriend? As the woman who slept with his arms tucked snugly around her? As the woman who’s developing very real, very intense feelings for him?
Yeah, I’m not thinking about that either.
I drop my robe and, naked now, do a quick inspection of my bikini area, making sure everything is nice and groomed before donning the white cotton panties that the director chose from the handful I brought as options. I pair it with a baby-blue tank top, no bra, then I pull my hair into two pigtails. “How do I look?”
Logan balances the camera on the edge of the sink, aiming it so that it will still catch us in the frame. “Come here,” he says, grabbing the hem of my tank to tug me to him. “You look so fucking hot, it’s killing me.” He presses my hand against his bulge to prove it.
Then he kisses me—sweetly but hungrily. It’s a short kiss, yet I’m flushed when he pulls away. He gives me a stupid grin. “Lick some ass.”
I want to ask if it bothers him that I’m about to get off with someone else. I want to ask if it bothers him that I let girls make me come. I want to ask if it will bother him when, later, when Bruce Madden makes me come.
But I don’t. Because I don’t want to hear that the long and short answer is “no.”
* * *
There’s lots of kissing in Lynne Femke’s lesbian porn. Though I do a variety of heat levels, Lynne’s tend to be the sweeter scenes.
“You’re just so curvy and soft,” the Swedish director told me once. “I could spend hours watching women touch you.”
So it’s no surprise when today Lynne’s direction calls for an extensive make-out session. “Lots of breast play, please. Then, Kendi, I want you to fuck Devi with your fingers.” She shows us the position she wants us to be in for the climax—literal climax—and then we’re ready to shoot.
Logan has his camera packed away now and is sitting by himself on a folding chair in the corner of the room. He wants to stay out of the way; as if I’ll forget he’s there if he’s farther from me.
I’m certain I won’t be able to forget. He’s the kind of guy that’s unforgettable.
But, to my surprise, I’m really not as distracted by him as I thought I’d be. He’s there, and I’m constantly aware of that, but I’m good at my job, good at focusing on the person in front of me.
Kendi’s a pro, too. We run quickly through the cheesy dialogue that sets up the scene—two college girls who have been assigned to be roommates. It’s our first night together in the dorm, and Kendi’s character, the returning student in the scenario, has taken it upon herself to teach my character how to…well, how to “get fucked by a girl.”
Admittedly, I’m not that great of an actress. If I were, I’d probably be performing in a completely different kind of film. My lack of skill doesn’t bother me—porn isn’t about acting. It’s about providing just enough visual and verbal cues to establish a fantasy and then genuinely focusing on the other person.
Figuring out how to turn someone on is like figuring out a math equation. How much of this will equal this? How many kisses before her breath gets shallow? How many flicks of my thumb over her nipple before it’s hard? How many strokes of her clit before her thighs start to tense?
Today, the math is easy because Kendi, in her role as teacher, is giving me all the answers. She’s telling me what feels good in words as well as body language. Naturally dominant, she’s good at this part, and I willingly submit, giving into the command of her soft lips and firm tongue invading my mouth. She tastes like mouthwash and the Skittles I saw her munching on before we started filming. Until she doesn’t. Until we’ve kissed so long, so deeply that our tastes have mingled and the only flavor in my mouth is want and pleasure.
We move through the steps of seduction organically, hands roaming over curves and slopes, under shirts, over cotton panties. Our clothes come off and, while I caress and grope the softest parts of her body, she makes love to my breasts, her tongue laving first one nipple then the other, turning them into sharp, rosy peaks.
I’m lost in delight. Before her fingers even find my clit, I’m wet and throbbing with need. Kendi’s a good lover, and I’m desperate for her to get me off. And, yes, I’d be into this no matter what, but I’m even more desperate for her because I know Logan is watching. Because I suspect that Logan is just as hot for this as I am.
If only I could watch him back…
But the cameras are on, and the story is just Kendi and I, so my eyes are pinned on her as her mouth roams lower and lower, as her tongue finds my most sensitive parts, as she brings me to delicious climax.
We shift positions, kissing for long moments before, at Lynne’s direction, Kendi turns me so my back is pressed up against her front. Her breasts push into my skin as she wraps herself around me so her hands can stroke my pussy. She swirls a fingertip across my clit, and when she slides her longest finger inside of me, I look up. I catch Logan’s eyes.
And the whole scene changes.
Logan is still as he watches, riveted, and the expression on his face is so wild and hot, so intense, so provocative, that I’m as transfixed as he is. I can’t look away. It’s Kendi who’s stroking me, Kendi who’s finger fucking me to orgasm, but all I can see is Logan. All I can think is Logan. All I can feel is Logan, Logan, Logan.
Images of the night before come back to me, vivid and alive. “Your pussy is so good.” The memory of Logan’s raspy words fills my head. The way he looked so greedy and driven and starved as he shoved inside of me. “I’m going to come so hard for you, going to come so fucking hard…”
The memory transforms into fantasy, and the words I hear aren’t ones he spoke then, but ones I imagine he’s speaking to me now. Greedy, greedy girl, he says from across the distance.
Please, I beg. Put it in me. Put it in me now.
That’s not how I want you to come.
But I need you.
He’s unflinching. This isn’t about you right now.
And he’s right—this isn’t about me. I can see clearly that he is as swept away with this fantasy as I am, whether or not the words he hears in his head match the ones that play in mine. It doesn’t matter. We are in th
is together. This scene is about us. This moment is about us.
It could be like this, he tells me. Our world. Filming with each other, for each other. This could be the future you were looking for. This could be us.
I’m coming, my pussy throbbing, my hips stuttering as they buck against Kendi’s hand, my breath frozen as Logan encourages my climax. Give it to me, Devi. Give it to me, Goddess. Layla. Cass, the Queen of the Night.
The fantasy swells with my release, pieces of the puzzle shifting into place—the star I could be with him, the movies we could make, the art. How we could go on working together, how we could go on seeing each other. How we could go on…together.
I’m completely spent when it hits me—I don’t just want to make porn with Logan O’Toole; I want to make a life.
14
The scene goes long.
Lynne says it was too beautiful, and she couldn’t bear to call cut. “Absolutely the best thing I’ve seen from you,” she says, and I look past her to Logan, who has surely heard her, and I wonder if he knows, like I do, that he’s the reason my performance today was so superb.
I don’t have time to find out because now I’m running late for the P in V scene that I have booked with LaRue, and I barely have a chance to gather my things and kiss Logan goodbye before I have to be on the road.
It’s not a long drive, and instead of using the little time I have to prepare mentally for the next scene, I spend it thinking about the one I just left. Thinking about last night. Thinking about Logan, and how he’s burrowed inside me, how I should have maybe built more walls to keep him out. How I don’t know what my career will look like now that he’s in my life. Wondering how I will ever be able to work again without him.
It’s not until I’m parked in the driveway of the mansion that LaRue has rented in the Hills that I finally pull my thoughts into focus and realize I’m about to film my first het sex without him. A male/female scene without Logan.
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