Porn Star (19 page)

It’s so strong that I’m not even going soft right now.  I could put on a fresh condom and go again...and probably again a few times after that.

I’m still staring down at my dick and Devi is still braced against the wall catching her breath as the footsteps approach, and there’s no time, no time at all, and then a tiny white-haired woman—bespectacled and lost-looking—rounds the corner with her quad cane.  We freeze and she keeps walking, mumbling something to herself as she does, and then all of a sudden, she sees us, her head snapping up and her eyes going wide like dollar coins.

“Um,” I say, my hand still around my cum-covered dick and my jeans around my ankles.  “Howdy.”

“Howdy,” Devi parrots, still bent over with her dress hiked over her ass.

For a few seconds that seem to stretch into infinity, the old lady blinks at us, too stunned to speak.  And then she makes a hasty retreat, shuffling backwards around the canvases until she’s out of sight.

Devi explodes into snorts and giggles, and I start panic-laughing as I frantically tie off the condom and try to pull up my pants and grab all my stuff at the same time.  My pants are zipped but not buttoned and my bag slung over my shoulder as I take Devi’s hand and pull her towards the fire exit door, where we emerge into the California night wheezing with the giddy laughter of people who’ve been caught having raunchy public sex by a tiny old grandma.

And then I drop everything to the ground and pin Devi into the fiercest, longest kiss I’ve ever given, wishing she could know with every trace of my tongue and every brush of my lips how much I’ve fallen in love with her.

T
he old lady
must have kept our secret, because when we presented ourselves to the gallery owner after closing after all the other patrons had left, she didn’t say a word of censure or reproach to us.  And so we were able to have the night I planned—some wine and snacks I packed, and a campout on the gallery floor, the camera trained on us from a perch at the foot of the sleeping bag, recording everything.

This is possibly the silliest thing I’ll ever admit to, but right now, the mere fact that Devi and I are sharing a sleeping bag makes me feel floaty.  A side effect of being a porn star is that I don’t have very many firsts to share with women.  I hardly have
any
firsts, actually.  But I’ve never spent the night with anyone in a place other than my house.  I know, that’s insane, but it’s true.  Raven and I were always so busy with work that there was never a chance of our travel schedules matching up...so no hotels.  And because I’m so busy, she (or the girlfriend I had before her, Tessalie), always came to my house after a day’s work.  I have fucked women in every imaginable space, public and private, but when it comes to actual, honest-to-God sleeping, when it comes to snuggling and spooning and talking about whatever random stuff floats to mind, it’s only ever been in my bed.  The novelty of sharing this first with Devi is better than a whole bottle of eighteen-year-old scotch.

“You don’t seem like the kind of person to have a two-person sleeping bag,” Devi points out dreamily as we lie on our backs and look at the strings of fake stars above us.  “Do you camp a lot?”

“I’ve only been camping once with a church group and I hated it.  Showers are very important to me.”

She gives a rueful sigh.  “I think I’ve been camping more times than I can count.”

“That doesn’t surprise me.  No, my parents got this for me a couple Christmases ago because they never know what to buy.  What do you get the man who has everything—or at least gets to fuck everything?  And the answer is usually the kinds of gift you see in catalogs on the airplane.”

Devi rolls over onto her elbow, her face suddenly serious.  “Do you think that you want to be the man who fucks everything forever?”

I turn my head to look at her.  “You mean, like do I ever see myself quitting porn?”

“Yeah.”

I think for a moment.  “Maybe?” I finally say, after my thoughts refuse to order themselves out of the incomprehensible jumble they are right now. “Like, I know logically that the job depends on my body, and my body only has a lifespan of being nice to look at for another decade or so, unless by some magic, I age like Robert Downey Jr. or Terry Crews or something.  I guess I just keep thinking that I’ll have my shit figured out by then, and I’ll know what to do when the time comes to step away.”

“If you could do anything, what would it be?”

Her brow is adorably furrowed right now, as if the answer to her question is the most important thing she’ll ever hear.  I reach up with my thumb and smooth it out, bringing a smile to her lips.  “I’d make movies.  Not just sexy movies, but all kinds of movies.  But that’s not really the kind of thing I can just jump into, and I don’t know enough about it even if I wanted to jump in anyway.”

“You could go to film school.”

“That used to be the plan.”  I roll up on my elbow too so I can look at her better.  “Hey, Cass?”

“Yes?”

“Tonight—did it feel real?  With the camera?”  As I ask, I glance over to the camera trained on us now, recording in silence.  

Even in the dim light, I can see her cheeks color.  “Yes, Logan,” she says quietly.  “It felt real.”

“Does it feel real now?”

A pause.  Then: “Yes.”

I trace the curve of her shoulder, my fingers dancing over her skin to find the slope of her rib cage, and my hand settles in making circles in the dip of her waist.  “I want things to be real between us all of the time,” I say, and I didn’t realize how nervous I would be saying this until I’m saying it now.  “I know we’ve admitted that we like each other in a physical sense.  That we’re attracted to each other and want to be more than friends.  But it’s even more than that for me.”

I feel her tense up underneath my hand, and I have a brief debate—backpedal or continue?  But I have to continue.  If she decides that my feelings make her too uncomfortable to go on with
Star-Crossed
, then I have to accept that.  But I don’t think I can hide how I really feel from her any longer.

But to make myself more comfortable, I revert to what I know best—sex.  My hand skims around her waist to the curve of her ass, and then I find her pussy warm and soft between her legs.  She moans as I start playing with her.

“I like you, Devi.  Not just in the porno way, but in the mushy hearts and flowers kind of way.  I like being with you and hearing you talk and just watching you exist.  I know that makes me a stalker, but...well, I guess I don’t really have an excuse for that.  Almost every night since we filmed
Playdates
, I’ve beaten off to your scenes…”

“Jesus, Logan,” she murmurs.

“Is that a good Jesus or a bad Jesus?”

“So good,” she mumbles, rolling onto her stomach and spreading her legs so that I have better access to her pussy.  “Rub me.”

“Yes, ma’am.”  I comply with her request and search out her clit, kneading it gently in case she’s sore.  “So I know I’m being manipulative by fingering you while we have this discussion, but I guess I want to know if I’m alone in this.  If you like me in the mushy way too.”

I can hear her smile in her words even though I can’t see her face.  “I like you in the mushy way too.  A lot.  You’re definitely not alone.”

The wave of sweet relief hits me so hard that I’m surprised to find that my eyelids are burning a little.  I clear my throat to cover it up.  “Really?”

“Really.”  She turns her head to look at me.  “I masturbated to you almost every night too, you know.  And the sex tonight was so good.  You make me feel—I don’t even have words for it.  Reckless.  Alive.  Ecstatic.  I was so caught up in you that I let you fuck me without a condom.”  She shakes her head in disbelief.  “I would fucking never do that in my right mind.”

By now I should be used to the fact that Devi doesn’t make emotional leaps without a healthy dose of logical caution, that there will always be a gap between my impetuous declarations and her admitting that she feels the same way.  But I’m not used to it yet, I guess, because relief and joy and giddy excitement are still thrumming through me with tornadic force.  I drop my head to her shoulder blade, breathing in her cinnamon smell.  “I want to make you out of your mind all the time,” I say against her skin.  “Like the way you make me.”

“I’d say you’re off to a good start.”  She squirms against my hand, and when I tease her folds open, I find that she’s completely soaked.

I peer around to see her eyes.  “Does this mean I can—” I search for the right words.  “—try to be your boyfriend?”

“Try?”  Her voice and expression are unreadable as she repeats the key word to the request, and shame bolts through me.  I want to offer her so much more than
try
, I want to
be
, but at the same time, this is Devi.  Perfection embodied.  My goddess and queen of the night, and what if I’m not able to be good enough for her?

What if, like Tanner suggested, she’s not okay with me continuing with my porn career?

Try
is safest for now, even though it’s the least of what I want to give her.  I’m the older, (theoretically) more mature party in this, and I’ve also recently traveled through the conflagration of a ruined relationship.  I deserve better, Devi certainly deserves better, and that means treading thoughtfully for now.

“Yes,” I say carefully.  “I want to try a boyfriend-girlfriend thing with you.”

I see her mind running through my words, weighing them and judging them, and then the biggest, most bashful smile spreads across her face.  “Yes, Logan.  Let’s try to have a boyfriend-girlfriend thing.”

“Oh, thank God,” I say, and I should tell her I love her now, I
want
to, but then I think of my logical girl with her cautious eyes.  It’s fascinating to me how she can seem so carefree, so sunny, but at the same time, she’s got a mind that ticks through thoughts and decisions like a Swiss watch.  I can’t spring the love thing on her now without making her watch mechanisms work overtime, so instead, I say, “I’ve got to fuck you again, you know that right?”

Her body makes a sinuous arch as she stretches off the sleeping bag to find my wallet.  She extracts a condom, and I rise up on my knees, a big dopey grin on my face.  My thoughts run something like this:
sex is happening, yay!  With my new sort-of girlfriend, yay!  Sex sex sex!

She tears the wrapper open with her teeth, expertly pinches the tip and rolls it down my thick erection.  When she’s done, she gives my cock a little teasing squeeze and looks up at my face.

“You look so happy,” she says shyly.

“Because I get to fuck my sort-of girlfriend right now.”

Spontaneously, she rises up and gives me a deep, searing kiss.  I kiss her back until she’s panting and squirming against me.

“On your knees and smile for the camera,” I say.

T
he number
one question I get when people find out I do girl-girl porn is, “So you’re a lesbian?”

The short answer is, “I’m bi.”

The long answer is, “All women are bi.”

The reason that answer is long is because there’s usually a discussion that has to take place after someone makes a comment like that. But here’s the thing—science pretty much proves it.

Now, no reason to get your panties in a wad about this. I’m not trying to start an argument; I just want to be able to explain how I got into this line of work, and part of that explanation requires understanding the basics of human biology, which, surprisingly, many people don’t.

Lesson time—women can identify as one hundred percent heterosexual, live a completely straight lifestyle, and still be aroused by another woman. It’s a fact. By arousal, I mean pupils dilate, pulse quickens, blood flow increases to the genitals. The female might not even recognize that these physical changes are happening, and I’m not talking about these things occurring when she’s kissed or caressed—I’m talking about when women are shown pictures of other attractive women, their bodies react.

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 hit puberty, I was 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 that we’re going to try the boyfriend-girlfriend thing, 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 concerned 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 fucked the night before at the gallery—I was 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 whom 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, Bruce Madden makes me come.

But I don’t, partly because he still doesn’t know about my scene this afternoon with Hagen’s studio, and partly—well, mostly—because I don’t want to hear that the long and the short answer to my questions are both “no.”

T
here’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.