I just hope this newbie is professional.
Because that's the thing: it's porn. My scene partners don't have to be attracted to me, they just have to be able to fake it. Imagine some buff dude with abs for days if that's what you need to do to get off during the scene, I don't care. But don't whine like a bitch because they paired you with a bear instead of a gym bunny.
God, maybe I need to take a break from this shit. It's clearly starting to wear on me, which is kind of sad. I love what I do and have zero shame telling people I am an adult entertainer. My job makes people happy, or fills a void (no sex puns, please, I'm being serious), or even inspires people to spice things up a little. I love knowing that I'm playing a part in that. And, yeah, I do have some fun while I'm at it.
But as I've been aging, trends have changed. People have started wanting more of the fantasy and less reality from their porn stars. Sure, a niche market exists for all shapes and sizes, but I can't deny that I'm booking less work than I was a decade ago. And now I've hit an all-time low, playing porny Santa.
Ho, ho, fucking ho.
I've built up a comfortable nest-egg over the years, depositing most of my earnings into high-interest savings accounts and stock investments. It wouldn't hurt me to start stepping out of the industry. To leave while goings are good, with my head held high.
Leave 'em wanting more.
The old showbiz mantra makes me sigh as it slowly seeps through my musings like molasses.
What ifIstill want more, though?
Honestly, while I'm not sure that I really do, I think I'm clinging to this work because it's familiar, and I am good at it. I'm afraid of being fifty and adrift without purpose.
Maybe I could direct or produce my own shoots,I decide as I guide my car into a spare space on the familiar lot.Or take up photography. Or...who the fuck knows?
"Get out of your head," I mutter, staring my own eyes down in the rearview mirror. "You're not dead or irrelevant."
Just relegated to playing Santa.Ugh.
I grab my duffel from the passenger seat and drag my ass out of the car, affecting a confident swagger and a cocky grin as I make my way to today's studio. The fact that we're shooting in an actual studio and not some cheap motel room does bode well for the quality of the production, at least.
Sonya greets me at the studio door and nabs my bag, pulling me in for a hug with over-the-top air kisses to each of my cheeks. "Dimmy, I've missed you," she declares, tossing my bag onto a nearby makeup chair and hustling me over to the costumes. Already tugging my shirt over my head like the whirlwind she is, she says, "Your co-star for this one is a cutie."
"Oh?" I ask, as if Jake hasn't already texted to tell me he'd just cast a 'hot newbie' who was 'ten thousand percent your type'.
She's grabbed a thin pair of red pull-apart sweats and she nods. "He seemed a bit confused and...I don't know...uncertain, I guess? At least, he did at first. But then he had a chat with Jamie, of all people, and has been practically bouncing around the set like a golden retriever."
I fight the urge to groan. Unhinged enthusiasm doesn't always translate to performing well on camera. Casting my gaze around the room, I try to spy the new guy, but everyone else is familiar to me. "And where is our new puppy, then?"
"Had to go to the little boy's room," she answers easily, pulling the pants up my legs and settling the waistband low on my hips. My bare belly overhangs it anyway. Sonya grabs the matching thin red jacket with white trim and helps me ease my arms into it, but she leaves the ensemble undone, stepping back to inspecther handiwork with a nod to herself. "Jake's not gonna throw you into a scene with each other without a little meet and greet first, though."
I nod. It's unusual —but not entirely unheard of at some of the lower-budget productions— to just shove a couple of entertainers in a room and see what they come up with. I personally like to talk through my plans for the scene, assuming nothing specific has been requested by the director, to make sure my scene partner is comfortable with it all. It's all well and good to be handed a dossier with a list of hard and soft limits, but I get a better feel for what my scene partner will most enjoy by talking it out and seeing their reactions. It's really not all that different from indulging at my local kink club, only when I am there, I am there for my own needs and entertainment.
"Here's your hat, Santa," she winks and hands the item over, then raises her chin, gesturing behind me, "and here's your Boy."
I paste on a warm smile and turn to greet my co-star, then almost swallow my tongue.
Rudolph's right testicle, he's gorgeous.
And familiar.
Whyis he familiar?
"Oh," the muscular man, whose body is testing the limits of the stretchy red long-johns he's wearing, practically inhales the word. He sounds —and looks— bashful, a pink flush dusting his clean-shaven cheeks. "Um, hi."
"Hi," I reply, a little dumbly. Licking my lips and ignoring Sonya's rapt attention at our awkward introduction, I ask, "have we met?"
His cheeks turn even more pink, and he shakes his head. "Not...not officially, no. I—”
Oh. Maybe he's a fan.
"You've...seen my work?" I offer gently, though that doesn't explain why he's familiar to me. Not unless he's been stalking me or something.
