I shrugged, hugging my notebook to my chest. “Not sure yet. You?”
“I don’t know.” She had a smug grin on her face. “But you’ve got a goldmine sitting right in your living room, and I’m thinking about taking advantage of that.”
“If you show up at Callan’s house with a notebook and those slutty little glasses—” I said, pointing at her face. “He’ll think you’re there to audition.”
She snorted and took off her glasses. “Well, if he needs an extra, maybe that’s my big break.”
“Please don’t. Even if I think you’d be the hottest porn actress alive…please don’t become a porn star.”
Holland sighed dramatically, then she waved a hand to dismiss my plea. “Don’t worry. As much as I love sex, I don’t want the whole world to see me do it. I’ll leave that to your sexy porn stepdaddy.”
“Please don’t ever call him that again.”
We both laughed, even though it wasn’t so funny to me. Luckily, Holland always knew when to drop a subject, so shestarted telling me about a new food spot she wanted to check out with me sometime.
***
By Wednesday, I still hadn’t picked a topic. I sat in the library with my laptop open, and the cursor blinking over a blank document. The essay was supposed to be about a personal experience on a film set. Something real, something that had shaped our understanding of how stories came to life on camera. Everyone else would probably find some student production happening on campus to write about.
And while that was probably the safest option, I kept thinking about Holland’s idea.
The longer I thought about it, the harder it was to shake off. The more I told myself it was weird, the more I found myself drawn to it anyway. She wasn’t wrong. The adult film industrywasstill film. It just had different stakes. It would make my essay stand out from the rest.
I’d been around it for over a year, and as hard as I tried, I couldn’t ignore it.
People were coming and going in and out of the house. Actors, producers, makeup artists. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was organized. Many would be surprised at how professional an adult film set could be.
I’d never watched a full scene being filmed, but I’d heard enough to know that there was rhythm to it. Actual professionals who poured their hearts into what they were doing.
Fine, maybe some were really just there for the sex—like Karlee. But I couldn’t deny that most of the people hanging out at Callan’s were really there to work.
I stared at the empty document, my fingers hovering over the keyboard.
If I wrote about it, I’d have to make it sound academic. I could talk about performance, about the illusion of desire on camera versus the reality behind it. I could call it something likeA Study of Intimacy and Performance.
But that would mean writing about Callan. About the world he’d created. About the parts of him I didn’t want to get to know more about, when what I already knew never really brought me any kind of joy.
I rested my chin on my hand and let out a heavy sigh.
Maybe Holland was right. Maybe I really did have a goldmine sitting in my living room. One I’d spent months pretending not to see.
It made sense. Everything we studied in class existed there, too, just in a more…naked way.
I’d still have to ask Professor Hayes first. Though he was the kind of professor who always supported his students, I wasn’t so sure he’d support this idea. Still, he talked a lot aboutcinematic truthandhuman storytelling,which, depending on how you looked at it, was exactly what porn was trying to fake.
After an hour of overthinking, I shut my laptop and decided to just ask him. If he said no, I’d move on. If he said yes…well, then I’d figure out the rest later.
When I arrived at his office, the door was slightly open. He was typing on his laptop, glasses low on his nose, a coffee cup balanced dangerously close to the edge of his desk. As much as I admired him, he often made me anxious with the littlest things—just like that damn coffee cup. Or the way he continuously clicked his pen while he thought, leaving a faint rhythm that made it hard to focus. Or the way he’d start a sentence, pause halfway through it, and stare into space like he’d forgotten howto speak, and then dismiss that first thought to speak about something completely different. He wasn’t incompetent. Hayes was brilliant, but his absentmindedness often drove me crazy.
“Professor Hayes?” I said, knocking lightly.
He looked up and smiled, looking as pleased as he always did when I, or any other student, for that matter, went up to talk to him. “Lana Marsh!” he called out, stretching out my name and making it sound a bit too dramatic as he leaned back in his chair. “Come in. What can I help you with?”
I stepped inside and clutched my notebook against my chest. “I had a quick question about the essay.”
“Go ahead.” He motioned for me to take a seat.
I hesitated for a second, then sat down in the chair across from him.
