basis. I wasn’t happy in the relationship, but it was as if the meaner I was to him, the more he loved me; and the more he loved me, the more I needed him. Before I knew it, I was stuck. This man was so desperate for me, loved me so much, and would do anything for me. Never was I going to find someone like this again.
Of course, what we were feeling wasn’t really love. It was our insecurities playing out in the most fucked-up, counterproductive way. He didn’t love himself, and thought an asshole of a girlfriend like me is what he deserved. I, for the first time in my life, felt like I was in total control, and I couldn’t let it go, no matter how much I didn’t respect him, no matter that I didn’t even like him.
That’s my Google-based diagnosis.
Shortly after we started dating, I found out that Luke’s fetish was no secret. People confronted me on almost every set and asked about our bedroom activities.
“Is it always dildos, or do you ever use vegetables?”
“Does he wear your underwear?”
“Do you ever make him suck it?”
The most common one was, of course, “Is he gay?”
“You’re so close-minded,” I would tell people. “Just cause he likes his girlfriend to fuck his ass with a strapon, it doesn’t mean he wants an actual penis in him.” People could be so dumb. In this day and age, you would think they could see past boxed, constrained labels. As little respect I had for Luke, I always defended him in this department. When it came to this issue, we were on the same team. It was more a matter of principle than anything. People needed to be educated.
Nothing turned Luke on more than when I called him a faggot. Maybe this was a clue I should’ve paid more attention to, but I always assumed it was the humiliation aspect that he liked. I never did ask him straight-up if he was gay, but I didn’t feel the need to. He loved me. He wanted me to fuck him. What could possibly be gay about that? A part of me also didn’t want to know if he was, in fact, batting for the other team. I had a boyfriend who was basically my slave. In the time we were together, I never paid for anything, filled my car with gas, or cooked for myself once. This was heaven. So what if other people judged our relationship? It was a small price to pay.
I got used to ignoring the gay rumors pretty fast, but Dan was the worst. It was always “your gay boyfriend this,” “your gay boyfriend that,” all day long whenever I shot for him. To this day, his set is the only one I’ve ever walked off without completing my job.
We shot all the nonsex stuff first, which took about six hours. I started the day off laughing the jokes off, but as the day got later and my sugar levels dropped (it was an anal day—restricted food), my patience wore out. Right as I went to rinse my butt out with an enema for the actual sex scene, Dan called out, “Don’t worry, Johnny, her asshole isn’t gonna turn you gay, too.”
It was a stupid joke that didn’t even make sense. But I had had enough.
“Fuck this shit.” I kicked my porno stilettos straight into my suitcase and started to undress out of my outfit. I don’t think I’ve ever gotten dressed so fast. It was unfortunate, too—my outfit for the day was a bathrobe, which is like hitting the porno lottery. Usually we’re in elaborate lingerie or dresses—an outfit as simple or comfortable as a robe comes but a few times in a career.
“Asa, come on, we’re all friends here. I’m just kidding.” Dan started to get nervous. I could see in his face, he was calculating how much money this shoot had already cost—if he didn’t get the sex, it would all be worth nothing.
“I’m not starving myself all day so I can take a cock up my ass for you! You’re an idiot. You just wasted everyone’s fucking time!”
I stormed off set. It takes a lot to get me that mad, but Dan had done it. I was tired of people trying to tell me the sexual orientation of my boyfriend. No one was going to tell me my boyfriend was gay anymore. In an industry where we were so often shunned from society because of our sexuality, you would think people would be more open-minded and understanding. It made me sick.
So imagine my surprise when Luke signed a yearlong contract with Men.com. We had already been broken up for well over a year, and hardly ran into each other. Things had ended on a sour note, when one day he confessed to me everything he had ever told me was a lie. The reason he liked strapons in his ass was not because his stepfather had raped him. His last name was not pronounced “Brah-may,” but rather “Broom,” as in “broomstick,” just like it was spelled phonetically, “Broome.” And that time I rushed home from my webmaster’s birthday party because Luke’s mother had unexpectedly died? Not true, she was well and alive.
I had been the last girl he dated before venturing into the other side of porn.
The press release came out while I was on set, starring in a weeklong feature with a company that had hired Luke many, many times over the years. No one wanted to talk to me about it, let alone look me in the eye for the remainder of the shoot. It was too awkward. I immediately texted everyone I knew in the business, “Do me a favor and spare me the ‘I told you so.’”
As Ruby and I shot take fourteen of our office dialogue, we heard banging from the other side of the wall. For a studio, the walls were fucking thin. I heard everyone chuckle. I looked up, and they nervously covered their mouths and gazed in random directions.
Brent didn’t crack a joke. “All right, let’s do another take for sound. Rolling, and action.”
4
Nutcracker Suite
Mistress. After almost a year of dominating men at the Nutcracker Suite, I still wasn’t able to get used to the title. Baby Sean, Ronnie the Tooth Guy, Eli the Trustfund Kid . . . They all called me that. Yet I never felt quite comfortable saying it myself.
I was one of five dominatrices on duty at any given time. The Nutcracker Suite was one of the few reputable dungeons in the city, managed by Clint, who rode to work on a Harley. Clint didn’t look like your typical submissive dungeon manager; with his leather motorcycle jacket, long hair, missing tooth, Brillo-looking beard, and all-black-everything uniform, he looked more like an ugly member of the Hells Angels. Despite all this, Clint was into some of the most hardcore shit I’ve ever seen in my whole life. I stuck a metal rod inside his urethra and electrocuted him once. He asked me to, one night when it was slow.
“See this dial here? To the right is stronger. Put it in first and start low.” The rod was about five inches long, and thin, like a barbecue skewer. Although, can you really consider anything thin when it’s going into your dick hole? “Here, put it in.”
I did as he said.
As soon as I put the tip in, his hole just sucked in three quarters of the rod. I couldn’t believe how easily it went in. (Later, I would learn this isn’t always the case. Urethras are like assholes. The more times it’s been penetrated, the less time it takes to open up.)
Clint was already in ecstasy.
I slid the metal in and out without turning the electricity on to see what his reaction would be. He smiled. His face looked like how I feel when a dick penetrates me.
Steadily as I could, I turned the dial on, and slowly nudged it to the right. The electricity started buzzing right away. It got louder and louder with every millimeter I turned. Curious, I put my hand around his cock and felt the electricity in my fingers, through my hand, and up my wrist. It didn’t hurt. Unlike the sharp sensation I expected it to be, it felt dull, like my hand had fallen asleep. Of course, I wasn’t holding the metal directly. I had a penis buffering the static.
The device turned me on a little bit. It scared me, but it would be a lie to say I wasn’t getting wet. Feeling the excitement, yet aware that I was electrocuting a man, I kept my hand on his dick and stayed nervous, still as a statue. Clint was twitching, but not in an overboard kind of way. I turned the dial again to the right.
He