sponge, stuff it deep in my vagina, and then I can still have clean, blood-free sex! I just have to make sure I take it out right after the scene—I accidentally left one in for two days once, and when I took it out, it smelled horrid.
Mom, I really feel like I’ve found my calling here. I know it’s not what you want to hear—I know it sounds absolutely absurd. But the more I do this, the more I realize I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be. I hope you can be happy for me.
Write back!
I’ll come home as soon as I can,
Love you,
Asa
Haiku
Home from Trader Joe’s,
Was it there for that whole time?
Dried cum on my chin.
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
