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
