Porn Star(19)

And part of it is Devi, my personal Cassiopeia, my Persian Queen.

But even thinking those words sends weird shivers down my spine, hot and cold flashes of lust and excitement, and also fear. Because what if she doesn’t feel the same way I do? What if I’m just that friendly guy she did a scene with once?

Or worse, the guy who spurned her advances at a party?

Fuck.

Don’t I give great advice? I text back to Devi, still lying in bed. I can’t believe I got fired from writing fortunes for the fortune cookie factory.

No response. Not for the first time this week, I wonder if I’m bothering her with my texts, intruding on what I imagine to be her well-ordered, healthy, beachy life. Maybe she’s just tolerating me because she doesn’t want to be rude. Maybe she actually thinks I’m pathetic—too limp-dicked to kiss her at Vida’s and now texting her like a boy in middle school.

I let the phone drop to the comforter and groan. I should leave her alone, I should bottle up this years-long crush I’ve had on her and give her space.

But then she texts me back and I’m diving for the phone again.

So tell me, O Wise One. I’m thinking about maybe doing some mainstream scenes. You know—with guys instead of girls. What do you think?

What do I think? I think I want to run over to her place now and make sure I’m the first male performer on her list! But no, I need to think like a friend and a mentor, not like a guy that jacks off to her every night.

Hardcore? I ask. A lot of people hear hardcore and think of extreme porn—BDSM and rough sex and all that, but really all it means is explicit. In hardcore porn, you get to see all the good stuff happening, *-eating and ejaculation and actual f*cking. A lot of Devi’s lesbian scenes could be considered hardcore, since she goes down on girls sometimes and they go down on her.

Yes, she texts back. But nothing too intense. No kink or group-sex. I’m on the fence about anal.

On the fence? No, no, no, you’re supposed to be bent over the fence. I can’t help myself. I’m only human.

Har har har. I don’t have anything against it—but I really don’t know if I could do it with just any performer, you know? I’d want to be with someone I trust.

I groan again, turning my face into the pillow. My dick is stirring from all this Devi-anal talk, and God, I wish I could be the performer she trusted. I would make her feel so good, I’d go slow, warm her up with all the orgasms she needed to relax, and then I’d make her feel like a glowing goddess. I’d use my fingers first, probing as I kissed and licked her cunt, and then I’d slowly work her open, sucking on her clit until her toes curled. I’d make her come with my dick inside her *, and while she was coming down, I would roll her onto her side, get on my knees and gently press inside. And then I’d make her come with my dick in her ass.

You’re making me too hard to think straight, Cass.

Very funny, Logan. But really, what should I do?

Does she honestly think I’m joking about being hard? Does she not realize the impact she has on me?

Of course she doesn’t, Captain Skinny-Dick. All she has to go on is how you pulled away in the pool.

I force myself to focus on her question. You know me, my camel-riding queen. I’ll always say do more porn. But make sure that it’s stuff you feel comfortable with—stuff you feel safe and happy doing. Work with people you trust.

This is unexpectedly serious for me, and I feel a little self-conscious pressing send. She doesn’t respond, and I hope it’s because she’s mulling over what I’ve said and not because she’s rolling her eyes at how suddenly pretentious and paternalistic I’ve gotten.

This doesn’t solve the problem of me being hard, however. Hard and dying for a taste of Devi—her skin, her lips, her cunt. I reach down and circle my erection, using my other hand to cup my balls, which are heavy and aching for release.

I glance at my clock—eight in the morning. Ginger will be here in a few hours to shoot a scene, and as good as it would feel to rub one out right now, it might feel even better to use Ginger’s wet * to get off. I squeeze my dick gently, imagining it now, Ginger tied up and helpless while I stroked in and out.

I would give my eyeteeth for it to be Devi, though.

With a groan of extreme restraint, I get out of the bed. I shower in some cold water to kill my boner and then brush my teeth. Once I’m all clean and minty, I trundle to my kitchen in only a pair of jeans to make a cup of coffee and wait for Tanner. He and I need to do some extensive blocking for the scene today because Ginger has decided she wants to try the harder, kinkier stuff, so we’ll have some props going on and some cues that I’ll mention in my monologue when we record it after the scene.

While I wait for the Keurig to power up, I open up my laptop and make a new Word document. I type in Ginger’s name at the top, along with the date and the style of scene we’re filming.

I film all sorts of scenes—sweet ones, filthy ones, public ones, scripted ones—and I try to make every monologue match the tone of the sex. I’ve become a bit famous for these monologues, which was a surprise to everyone when I started doing them a few years ago. Who wants to sit and listen to a guy talk for ten minutes before the f*cking gets started? Who wants to wait for the penis-in-vagina, the P-in-V, just to hear the guy talk about the girl and what he loves about their sex?