Porn Star(10)

“What did you have in mind?” I ask.

Vida sighs, turning her chair to stare out of the office window. Outside, the sky glows purple above the city, and lights sprawl for miles and miles. I suddenly feel lonely again, although I can’t pinpoint exactly why—whether it’s the city so massive and crowded and self-absorbed, or the sight of Vida Gines, Her Royal Majesty of Porn, looking so lonely herself.

Is this going to be me in fifteen years? Alone? With only my business for companionship?

“I’m not sure,” she admits, and I can tell the admission pains her. “Porn is changing. And I’m used to adapting to how people watch it, how they pay, and how they steal, but adapting to these bigger things…”

She drifts off, her eyes pinned to the cityscape outside.

“We need something new,” she finally says, and she turns back to me. “Something fresh. I don’t know what that it is, and that’s why I need you. You’re young, you’re sexy, and most importantly, both men and women connect to your scenes. They don’t just skip to the f*cking and jerk off, they watch the whole thing, and then they come back and watch it again. They have favorites. Your subscription rates are through the roof and you’re a social media darling. Logan, Lelie needs you if it’s going to become more than art-house porn. I need you.”

I think for a minute. Lelie has vision. Partnering with them would put me closer to my goal of creating unique and artistically driven films. And it sounds like Vida is basically giving me carte blanche to do whatever I want, so long as it bolsters Sinfully Vida’s female-friendly reputation and ultimately makes money. There’s no reason to say no, except…

“Vida, I’d love to work with Lelie.”

She smiles.

“But I have no idea what to do.”

She waves a hand, those nails like streaks of pink light through the air. “You don’t need to know now. Just promise me you’ll think about it. And when you’re ready,” she reaches for her smartphone and taps at the screen a few times, “contact Marieke de Vries. She’s the head of Lelie, and she will get you whatever you need.”

My phone lights up with Vida’s text.

“Thanks, Vida.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” she says. “Now get upstairs and drink my liquor.”



* * *



In that way that certain parties will, the mood has shifted and only half of the people here know it. When I make it upstairs, the unknowing half still laughs and drinks and dances, but the crowd in the common area of the house has noticeably thinned. I see the cluster of people in the upstairs hallway—crowding around the orgy that’s undoubtedly happening in one of Vida’s many bedrooms—I take in the unmistakable smell of pot and sex, and I know it’s time for me to go home.

And that’s okay, because all I want to do is think about Vida’s offer. I’m excited about it, I’m nervous about it, I’m obsessed with it already, and so there’s no room for an impersonal and drug-fueled orgy in my mind.

But then I hear her voice.

Not Vida’s voice. Not Devi’s voice.

Hers. My own personal Voldemort.

You know when you have a bruise and you can’t stop pressing on it? Or a cut on your lip that you lick over and over again, even though you know it makes it worse? It’s this impulse, this sick fascination, like you want to feel the ache, you want to hurt yourself, you want to be both the recipient and the giver of the pain all at the same time. And that is the only explanation I can find right now for why I’m walking toward the hallway, pushing through the crowd and standing in the doorway of one of Vida’s bedrooms.

I’m not shocked at what I see in front of me. I’ve seen it hundreds, maybe thousands of times, both on set and off. There are five people on the bed and scattered couples around the room, all in various stages of f*cking. Dicks, cunts, mouths. Legs spread, sweat glistening. Tonight there are more tattoos and piercings than normal, hair in blue or bright red victory rolls rather than sleek highlights, but it’s all still the same.

But I’m not looking at them. I’m looking at the pale, dark-haired woman in the middle of the bed, who’s riding one man while another f*cks her in the ass, no condoms in sight. Her head is thrown back, her eyes are closed and she’s moaning and panting as her stomach tenses up with her impending climax.

Raven always did like double penetration.

I don’t need to see this. If I wanted to see my ex-girlfriend get f*cked by another man—or two—all I have to do is crack open my laptop. I don’t have to witness it like this, in this dark, smoke-wreathed room with Lana Del Rey droning in the background.

But I can’t seem to make myself move. My traitorous dick jolts as she cries out and comes hard, her smooth thighs tensing and fingernails digging into the shoulders of the guy she’s riding. God, she’s a wonder to watch f*cking, all those lithe muscles and that pale skin. Was it only three months ago that it was my cock inside her *? Only three months ago that I was the one to pull on that hair, kiss that neck, fight her for the blankets at night? Only three months since she broke my f*cking heart?

She comes down from her orgasm with a breathy moan, looking coyly over her shoulder at the guy f*cking her from behind, giving him the fluttering eyelashes and curled smile that I recognize all too well. It’s her scene-smile, her I’m-going-to-make-you-feel-like-a-big-strong-man smile, and it’s definitely not an expression she ever bothers to trot out when she’s having real, off-screen sex.