true porno style, as if it were second nature to us, Laila and I dropped down to our knees in sync and crawled over to him on the sofa. I took his shaft in my mouth while she took the balls. I thought about how many times he had cum thinking about this moment.
Often, I think about the guy on the other side of the screen while I’m shooting. If I’m not particularly fond of my partner for the day, I know I can rely on the idea of the guy at home watching, jerking off to me to get me wet. Right now, right here, this was my favorite part of my job coming to life.
“Teacher, I want to be your favorite student.”
By the time the condom was on and he put his dick in me, I was soaking wet. I screamed like I did in the movies for him. I shook my ass. Laila and I slapped each other around, just like we had done so many times before on camera. Only this time we had a live audience.
Like Laila had said, once we started fucking, it lasted about ten minutes. Like in the scene he was watching earlier, he came on our faces. We went to the bathroom, took turns showering, got our money, and left.
She was right. It was the easiest money I had ever made.
I saw Frederick again, on my own, the next day. We acted out a similar scenario, minus Laila. The sequel felt underwhelming. Maybe because I was alone . . . maybe because the novelty had worn off. Maybe because he wanted me to wear the same outfit as the day before, and it hadn’t been washed. Or maybe it was the fact that he had asked me to fuck without a condom on, which just reminded me of how many girls in this business are fucking their clients raw. It made me sad. It turned me off. I never saw him again. He texts me from time to time, but I never reply. What’s the point? The spark I felt on our initial rendezvous had gone. I had given the guy too much credit. Strike two.
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