Insatiable: Porn — a Love Story (3 page)

Feeling confident about the gig, but not necessarily needing to experience it again, I told Laila hooking wasn’t my thing. So the next time she mentioned a client, I smiled and told her, “Tell him ten grand.”

I was joking. I never thought someone would pay that much for sex.

But Joe did.

The agreement was that I would meet him for dinner. If I felt uncomfortable in any way, I would walk away right there with a thousand dollars. If I went home with him, I’d get ten grand up front, cash. The holidays were just around the corner. It was an offer I couldn’t turn down.

“I watch about five hours of porn a day,” Joe confessed to me at dinner. His brutal honesty charmed me. Most people would consider this the kind of information you kept hidden on a first date. Then again, this wasn’t a date. Like Frederick, he was kind of handsome. He was the kind of guy I’d like to watch a character-driven documentary on. Nerdy, socially awkward, and though I’m no psychologist, to me he seemed like he could be on the Asperger spectrum. After dinner I was more than thrilled to go back to his place. We stayed up all night and talked. Joe was smart, and I felt like I could listen to him talk forever. He was the kind of guy I could really
learn
from. I told him I had only hooked once (half true), and we were so enthralled in conversation, we didn’t even get to fucking until five in the morning.

I think the
True Romance
–ness of it was what drew me in.

After the sex, we took a nap, went out to breakfast, and I drove home. I couldn’t shake him off; I was fascinated by him, his brain, the whole scenario. I romanticized the situation, fantasized what it would be like if he were my Captain-Save-A-Ho.

The next week was Christmas, so my schedule was clear of shoots. Joe took me on a first-class trip to Hawaii. Everything was top-notch. The resort, our suite, our limos, everything. He worked the whole time we were there from his computer but had rented out a cabana for me by the pool for every day we were there. I lounged by the pool, went hiking, explored the resort, and shopped with his money while he worked all day. Then we’d meet up for dinner, fuck in the room after, and stay up late talking. It was perfect.

On the last night, we took a stroll along the beach after another fancy dinner. “How much longer do you want to do porn?” It was happening. The inevitable question. What it translates to is
I don’t want to say it now but eventually I will ask you to quit your job for me
. Every guy I’ve dated has eventually brought this up; it’s not a matter of if they will, it’s a matter of when.

I imagined what my life would be like if I were with this guy. Could I really give up this life I was living? Sure, he was rich. I’d probably never have to work again. Ultimately, though, I knew what our destiny would be. I’d been down this road before. The first step would be for me to make faraway promises I knew at the bottom of my heart I couldn’t keep. Then when the time came, I’d come to my senses and realize that I wasn’t ready to give up my dream job. We’d argue, both make compromises, only to realize that our relationship would never work because ultimately I need to do what makes me happy, which is porn. We’d part ways and never speak again.

We didn’t fuck that night. I hardly even spoke to him after he asked that question. He knew what my silence meant. The next day we flew back to Los Angeles. We said an awkward goodbye at the airport, and I knew I’d probably never speak to him again.

On the cab drive home, the first song to come on my iPod was “Ho,” by Ludacris. What the fuck. Then I remembered a joke my friend Sebastian had told me a long time ago.

“You don’t pay a hooker to come, you pay a hooker to leave.”

I was the ultimate hooker failure. I didn’t leave. At all. I did just the opposite. I came, over and over. I got emotionally involved and tried to make something out of nothing. Strike. Three.

Letter to Mom

August 12, 2008

Dear Mom,

California is great! The weather is beautiful, I mean it’s August so that’s obvious—but even when I got here five months ago, I was already laying out by the pool at the model house almost every day. There’s five of us living here, in total—the agency, it’s called Goldstar Modeling, has a house that girls from out of town can stay at.

The rest of the girls are all from random places like Ohio and Michigan. A couple of them make me feel like I need to keep a constant eye on my belongings, but for the most part, everyone is cool!

So far, I’ve found the stereotype of a typical pornstar . . . is kind of accurate. But also totally wrong. I mean there are definitely girls hooked on drugs, girls who have been abused by family members, girls who got in the business because their boyfriends, aka “suitcase pimps,” wanted them to. But that’s only about half of them; there are also girls with college degrees, girls who are feminists, and girls who come from completely normal backgrounds. My agent told me the former group won’t last long; the latter is the kind that will be around in a few years. (This makes me feel confident.)

This one girl here, Devon, she’s from Detroit. She’s brand-new too. One day I was about to leave to the grocery store, which is like a ten-minute walk away. She asked me to pick up a sandwich for her (which was kind of annoying), so I was like, “Why don’t you come with me?”

She was like, “I can’t, ’cause I can’t walk very far.”

I was like, “It’s not even ten minutes. Come on, don’t be lazy—if anything it’ll be a mini workout.”

She was like, “Ever since I got shot, it hurts when I walk uphill.”

(The walk on the way back is pretty much all on an incline.)

I asked her why she got shot. I thought . . . Detroit? Ghetto, right? Probably domestic abuse, or a drug-related thing.

She goes, “I got in a fight over a parking space, and the guy shot me in both of my knees.”

Like holy fuck, Mom—I couldn’t believe my ears! Who shoots someone—multiple times—over a parking spot????

So there’s definitely that crowd.

My first week here was already pretty hectic. I mean the very day I arrived, my agent picked me up from the airport and drove me straight to a photographer to take my photos for the agency website. My agent is kind of weird. I mean I know he’s legit cause Gina Lynn referred me to him, and he represents her, and she’s one of the biggest stars around but . . . I think I’ll just take everything he says with a grain of salt.

The next day, before my photos even went up, I went to meet with the owner of this company called Vouyer Media; and he signed me to an exclusive contract for my first few movies! It’s a Gonzo company. See Mom, in porn, there are two kinds of productions: Gonzo porn, and Feature porn. In Gonzo, the movies are just straight-up sex—no dialogue, no setup, no scenario. The cameraman uses the camera to maneuver around the people having sex, getting really tight shots of the penetration and stuff.

Feature porn is totally different. It’s considered “classier”—they are like real movies, but with sex scenes integrated into them. There are additional days of shooting only dialogue, and it’s a really long and tedious process. The sex is usually way softer, too—and the camera generally stays on either a tripod or a jib, a safe distance away from the actual sex. It’s marketed more toward couples and women.

Anyway, so my first five movies out were with Vouyer Media. They’re already all out; Gonzo productions turn over pretty fast. It takes one day, about eight hours, to shoot a scene. The day starts out around 9 a.m. in the makeup chair. After that, we shoot “pretty girls,” which are basically just photos of me by myself. I start out in the outfit appropriate for the day—doctor’s outfit, schoolgirl uniform, office-wear, etc. . . . And then I strip down to my matching lingerie set, then to just me naked, and then they take close-up shots of my lady bits. Around 1 p.m., I put my lingerie and outfit back on, and we start shooting the tease, which is like a striptease, or “pre-sex” clip that gets edited down to four minutes total. That takes about an hour to shoot, until 2 p.m. when the male talent arrives. We shoot photos of 3–4 sex positions. By 3 p.m. we are usually ready to roll video on the sex, which lasts about thirty minutes. I’m usually showered and out the door by 5 p.m.

My second month of shooting, though, something kind of shitty happened. Are you sitting down? If not, sit down. This is gonna sound crazy to you I’m sure, but I promise you it’s not a big deal. It’s like catching a cold, really. I got chlamydia. It’s curable! You just take a few pills and it goes away. But when they called me, I was totally devastated. I mean . . . It’s an STD. Gross! Don’t tell any of my friends, or your friends, okay? Don’t even tell Dad. Just don’t tell anyone please. We have this testing system out here, everyone in porn uses it. Every production company requires a test no older than thirty days (some require tests no older than fourteen days) to shoot a scene. It’s pretty cool—at first I couldn’t even look at the needle going into my arm, but now I hardly even notice when they poke it in. Anyways, I was at the beach with Jenna (she is staying at the model house too) when I got the call from them. The caller ID showed it was the testing facility, and Jenna immediately told me that was a bad sign, that they never call unless they have bad news.

“Hi, is this Asa?”

“Yeah, is everything okay?”

“I have some bad news, honey, it’s about your test. You came up positive for chlamydia.”

Mom, I swear, everything went dark after that. Like I know they always say that in books and movies and stuff, but it literally happened to me. I felt like I was about to pass out (I didn’t), and Jenna had to call our agent for me. I think I was even deaf for a couple of minutes.

Anyways, Jenna drove me to the testing center, I took my meds on the spot, got retested a week later, and then I was ready to get back to shooting.

My first few scenes are kind of a blur. One of them was for a movie called “Make Me Creamy,” and it’s a cream-pie movie. Do you know what that is? It’s when the guy cums inside the girl’s vagina. I don’t think I’m gonna do any more scenes like that. I mean I don’t necessarily regret it, but . . . I just don’t want random guys’ sperm in me, you know?

So far, since those initial five movies I shot for Vouyer Media, I’ve done about fifty movies for different companies. That sounds like a lot, when I think about it. I think I like the Gonzo movies better—I think hardcore sex is what I’m really good at, you know? The acting stuff, I need some more practice with.

Oh, you wanna know something really weird? Black guys in porn don’t take their shoes off during sex. Like if the scene starts off with them naked, they enter the frame fully unclothed, but with their shoes on. And if the scene starts with them clothed, they take off the shoes to remove their pants, and then THEY PUT THEIR SHOES BACK ON. And it’s literally only the black guys. I’m gonna get down to the bottom of this before I leave the business.

Hmmm, what else have I learned . . . I learned that when I’m on my period, I can just cut off a little piece of a makeup sponge, stuff it deep in my vagina, and then I can still have clean, blood-free sex! I just have to make sure I take it out right after the scene—I accidentally left one in for two days once, and when I took it out, it smelled horrid.

Mom, I really feel like I’ve found my calling here. I know it’s not what you want to hear—I know it sounds absolutely absurd. But the more I do this, the more I realize I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be. I hope you can be happy for me.

Write back!

I’ll come home as soon as I can,

Love you,
Asa

Haiku

Home from Trader Joe’s,

Was it there for that whole time?

Dried cum on my chin.

3
Penis Envy

Ruby and I sat on the floor of Studio E as we rehearsed our script. We were shooting a lesbian scene for
BigTitsAtWork.com
.

“What? You’re not going to comment on my tits, Miss Akira?”

“Um, I think that would be inappropriate, boss.”

“Well, if you’re saying I’m distracting you from your work, and you want me to put these tits away, you’re going to have to do it for me.”

“I’m not sure that would be the right thing to do.”