Porn Star(66)

“Gotta run,” Raven says, and she’s gone before I can even say goodbye.

As much as I didn’t want a confrontation with her, I’m almost disappointed that she’s left. Or, rather, I’m disappointed that she’s left and I’m still agitated.

“I want to shoot in five,” the director says in a tone that suggests he wants to shoot now but knows I’m not ready. “Do you know what you’re wearing?”

With Raven gone, I have nothing keeping me in the entryway. I cross to him. My knees feel weak, and I’m distracted, and I wish I could focus on the things distracting me instead of on what I should be wearing before I’m not wearing anything.

But I can’t.

When I reach the director, I hold out my Ralph’s bag. “I have other options.”

Without looking at my clothes, he shoos the bag away. “Not necessary. We’re already running long on some of the other scenes. This one needs to be concise.”

“What are you thinking?” The buddy-buddy way Bruce confers with the director puts me immediately on guard.

For the first time since I’ve arrived, I scan the room. The crew is entirely comprised of men. Middle-aged white men, to be precise. The director’s assistant is a blonde in a short skirt. The gray-bearded lighting guy’s T-shirt reads, “It won’t suck itself.” The cameraman is ogling the girls dressing in the next room—the kitchen, which seems to be the makeshift dressing room. There’s no door, so everyone can watch the performers dress, which might seem like no big deal since we’re shooting porn, but it is a big deal. To me it is. This set is a total boys’ club—the kind of set I have managed to avoid in my three-year career.

“I’m thinking we lose the clothes,” the director says to Bruce. “Cut the time it takes her to strip. Let’s put her in a robe and maybe she’s cleaning up after dinner and then you come in and f*ck her on the table.”

“Ooh, I like that,” Bruce says, his pupils dilating as he leers at me.

“Debs, see if there are some dishes in the kitchen cabinets we can use for this scene.”

“How does that sound to you, Devi?” LaRue Hagen puts his hand on my arm, startling me with both his touch and his presence. I haven’t seen him until just now and wasn’t even sure he’d be on set today.

I’m grateful he is—not only is he a friendly face, but he’s the only person who seems to care what my opinion is about the proposed changes to the scene.

“It sounds—” ridiculous, unrealistic, and grossly male-centric. The dishes the director’s assistant is already setting out on the table aren’t dirty—why would I be clearing them? Yes, I know, porn isn’t about making sense, just…

Ugh.

But, honestly, if it shortens the scene, I’m game. “It sounds okay to me. Thank you for asking. Is there another room where I can get undressed? A room with a door?”

The director doesn’t hide his eye roll, but LaRue smiles reassuringly. “Definitely. Why don’t you use the office? I believe there’s a mirror above the mini-bar. We’re running late, though, so get yourself changed and back out here quickly.”

“Sure.”

I scurry into the office and shut the door, which doesn’t lock, but I don’t have time to be annoyed. It only takes a minute to undress and put on my robe. Then I take another minute to center myself. My head is all over the place, and I need to be focused to do my job.

The breath goes in, the breath goes out, I say to myself, concentrating on the air as it fills my lungs and as I release it. The breath goes in, the breath goes out. The breath goes in, the breath goes out.

I bet Raven knows Logan’s real name.

The thought is sudden and paralyzing, but before I can recover there’s a knock on the door.

“Devi?” LaRue says through the wood door. “We’re ready for you.”

I’m not ready for them. I’m not ready for any of this.

I open the door, about to give an excuse to stall, but before I can say anything, LaRue’s ushering me back to the set. “Everything okay, Dev?”

I’m not sure that he’s really interested in my answer, and I get it. It’s his money we’re burning with every minute the camera isn’t rolling. He’s a good guy, though, and I think he’d genuinely want to know that I’m having issues.

So I decide to tell him. “Actually,” and then LaRue’s phone starts buzzing in his pocket.

“Excuse me,” he says as he pulls it out to look at the screen. He clicks the talk button saying, “I’m sorry, I’ve got to take this. Jerry, hi!” Cell to his ear, LaRue makes his way through the naked women in the kitchen and steps outside on the back lanai, closing the sliding door behind him.

With his boss gone, the director, who has yet to introduce himself, gets more assertive. “Okay, Devi, babe. Drop the robe, will ya, so we can set light levels. Debs tried to step in for you, but you’re darker than her.”

It’s not a racist comment, yet he sounds like a douche when he says it. Possibly because he’s telling me to take my clothes off in the same breath. Yes, I’m comfortable naked, but typically the directors I work with still respect that I’m a person, not just a body. They’re courteous and nurturing, and conscious of what I need to feel safe while performing.