Читать книгу Insatiable - Asa Akira - Страница 12

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.”

“Listen. If you want to keep your job, you’ll do as I say. Now close the door and come be a good girl.”

Scripts for these scenes never change much. Wardrobe is always a pencil skirt, stockings, and a collared shirt unbuttoned far too low for an actual office. There is always a boss, as well as an employee. The employee is generally at risk of losing their job. The sex, being part of a website centered around big tits in the office, involves a lot of breast play, and positions in which they are on full display. I always feel silly shooting for this site, since I don’t have particularly large breasts; I always imagine the viewers at home wondering what I’m doing on this site. For some reason I imagine a British couple watching. The man would exclaim in the Queen’s English, “Look here, this girl is barely a C cup. What on earth is she doing here?”

“Who does she think she is?” his wife would answer, in an equally British accent. “Does she really think her breasts are big? That’s preposterous!”

The couple would then toast with their wineglasses and have a good laugh at my expense.

As Ruby and I went over our lines over again, Brent came running in. He was the director of this fine website.

“They’re shooting a gay scene next door in Studio D!” he burst.

In no way was his enthusiasm an overreaction. The gay and straight sides of porn rarely cross, and to us, on the straight side, the other side was a mystery land we knew nothing about. To be in the studio next to a gay scene being shot was like winning the freak show lottery.

We had all heard rumors of the other side.

“They don’t get tested every month like us. They just use condoms.”

“Seventy-five percent of them are HIV positive.”

“I heard most of them are straight, they’re just gay for pay. They all watch straight porn on their phones to get hard, and then shoot two minutes of sex at a time. That’s how long they can keep their dicks hard.”

I could hardly contain myself. Shooting up from my seat on the floor, I stood up, kicked off my heels, and ran to the door. There was no one standing outside their studio, not even taking a smoke break. I ran back to Brent. “How do you know? Where are they? Did you see them actually shooting?” I couldn’t ask my questions fast enough.

“I went to pay Laura the studio fee, and they were there. Rocky’s shooting his first bottom scene!”

What? Everything changed in one moment. Rocky, better known to me as Luke, was my ex-boyfriend. We were even briefly engaged for a month or two. I knew he was shooting gay scenes now, but never so physically close to me. The situation went from level highly entertaining to awkward in a flash.

Luke always denied being gay when we were together, but he liked to be fucked in the ass with a strapon. It’s actually what drew me toward him in the first place. Physically, I suppose he looked like he could swing either way. Tall, muscular, not quite handsome, but passable as an overall good-looking dude. We worked together on a movie and exchanged numbers upon wrapping. I didn’t know about his fetish at the time, nor was I really considering calling him, ever. I guess I was just being nice. Totally the opposite of my type, Luke was too delicate. Clean-shaven, manicured nails, perfect tan. The authenticity of his nose was questionable, and his teeth were undoubtedly too white to be natural. Originally a good country boy from North Carolina, soft-spoken and well mannered. He didn’t command anything of me, which is something I usually needed in a man.

I’ve never been attracted to men who are anything but super-masculine. Things like body hair, mismatching clothes, and messy table manners are on the Pros side of the list. Men who act like men are hot—this new breed of “metrosexuals,” with their Botoxed faces and tinted hair, did nothing for me.

Even the girls I find to be the hottest are the ones who look like men. With their short hair and taped-down boobs in wifebeaters, there’s something so erotic about a girl acting like a guy. The whole overcompensated masculine energy thing is sexy.

I’ve often wondered if this just means I’m straight.

The truth is, I find women incredibly intimidating. When I see a sexy woman, right away I envision her looking at me in disgust as I approach her.

“Don’t you think you’re a little out of your league?” She’d laugh and go call a friend to make fun of me.

Women are beautiful, and I love pleasing them. Often, during a lesbian scene, I’ll make a competition out of the sex. I like to see how good I can make her feel, how many times I can make her cum. I try to sync us in a way that we are riding the same sexual wave. The more resistant she is, the more fun my game becomes.

Fucking the shit out of a woman is enjoyable, but it’s mashed potatoes—the delicious extra something on the side. The main dish has to be a man. I don’t see myself ever dating a woman, or feeling a deep emotional connection to a woman I’m having sex with, either. Whenever I’m asked what my “type” is for females, I give different answers.

“Skinny with big boobs.”

“The thicker the better.”

“Teenaged Puerto Ricans with big asses.”

I don’t know why I feel this immense pressure to give a fake answer, when secretly my answer is, “I don’t have a type. I like any girl that likes me.”

After we exchanged numbers, Luke texted me incessantly. I only replied when I was bored—I gave him short answers, just enough to keep him interested. Nothing is more of a turnoff than when someone you’re not into texts you. Of course, you could always just tell them you’re uninterested, or ignore them altogether until they go away. Somewhere deep down, though, the attention is appreciated. At any given time, I always have a rotation of at least three guys, who I know I’ll never give a chance to, but I keep them just interested enough so they’ll stroke my ego from time to time. Call me insecure, but . . . Whatever works.

Months went by, and he was still texting me. My phone went off one day just as I was about to enter a tanning bed. I looked down. It was Luke. Again. I opened the message, thinking about what a pain in my ass he was, and not the good kind.

“Do u like using a strapon on a guy?”

The message caught me off guard. I delayed going into the tanning bed to reply.

“Yah. Y?”

“I saw a cover of u w a big black strapon. I like that too. But not on camera.”

Whoa. This guy was finally starting to interest me. I would never have guessed he was the type. It all made sense now—that was why he was so desperate. He’s a fucking sub.

“That’s hot : )”

I had never worn a strapon in my personal life. For work, yes . . . but never just for fun. I was intrigued.

“Send me ur address. I’m coming over tonight to rape u. U better be ready. If u shit on my cock I’m leaving.”

It was a date.

The last time I had fucked a guy with a strapon was for a scene in Strap Attack 7. Jeremy was submissive in his personal life, and he was eager for me to fuck him. It was something I had never done on camera, but I had done it numerous times at the dungeon—I assumed it would be easy. I was wrong.

“Open up to me please, Asa. I can’t see the penetration.”

“Move your hand, you’re blocking his ass.”

“Try to balance on your left leg so your hips open up; I can’t see the dildo.”

“Energy, Asa, I need more energy!”

By the end of the scene, my legs were on fire. At least five times, I needed to cut to take a break. I work out every day, eat healthy, and don’t drink or party. Being the man in the scene was more work than I had realized. I was dripping sweat from constantly thrusting back and forth, and my back hurt from all the crazy positions I had to do in order for the camera to catch the action. Guys have to do all this while keeping their dicks hard? I had a newfound appreciation for male performers that day; as a girl, on our worst day, we can just throw some lube in, lie there, and get manhandled. The scene will still look good, as long as we can hold still in a few positions, and occasionally throw in a generic phrase like “Your cock is so hard in me,” or “My pussy is so wet for you.”

This shoot was good for me—it was both humbling and educational.

Personally, I don’t really like to be fucked with a strapon. Dildos have never really done much for me; when I’m with a girl, I like for her to use what she already has. The hardness and rubberiness of a dildo make it feel unauthentic and painful. It’s almost like the strapon puts too much distance between us. I like for us to feel close—fingers, hands, mouth, feet, knees, whatever. Sex with a girl, for me, is not about dominance or submission; rather, more about just feeling good.

On the other hand, when I’m the one wearing a strapon, something comes over me. I get on a high. It’s something like being drunk with power—the things I say, the things I demand of my partner, are things I wouldn’t dare dream of voicing in my normal state. With a strapon, I feel invincible. I feel like I could take over the world.

Once the strapon comes off, I feel embarrassed. If I felt that kind of power from simply putting a fake penis on, it’s frightening to imagine the kind of corruption I’d really be capable of if I was someday in a real position of power. Why did I say those things? Who did I think I was?

That first night with Luke, I went on my usual power trip.

“You stupid faggot, you’re so pathetic, aren’t you? That’s why you couldn’t stop calling me. You had to beg for me to come fuck your ass just so you could see me.”

It was a rush I hadn’t felt since my domming days. The only difference was, the power trip didn’t end when I removed the strapon. Instead, it continued on for over a year. I degraded and emasculated him on a daily 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.”