“Hey.” Gigi puts her hands on my shoulders, steadying me with her presence and the literal hold she’s got on my body. “Today, all you have to do is be sexy.”
I’m shaking, still in denial, though something like elation’s edging its way in. “Sexy? I’m not Bond girl sexy, I’m the character actress who—”
“Bullshit,” says Gigi, clearly pissed now.
“Agreed.” Max crosses her arms over her chest. “You are totally Bond girl sexy.”
“Only better, because—”
“Because there’s more of me.” I repeat Gigi’s tried and true phrase and let the thrill take hold and kick me back into gear. “Holy shit.”
“Yeah. Yeah! Because there’s more of you, babe. Because what you do at camp isn’t just about getting your rocks off. It’s about physical acceptance and sexual freedom and being the sexiest fucking woman alive.”
“You’re hot.” Max leans in. “I’d totally do you, Twyla.”
“Me, too,” says a camper walking up. I’ve seen them around, but we’ve never met. The last time I saw them, they had clamps on their nipples and were suspended ten feet in the air. Right now, they’re wearing enough clothes to walk into a fast-food place unmolested. “We need you on set. You ready?”
I suck in a breath. Am I ready to do this? To step into my new role like I was born for it?
“You are sexy,” says Gigi. “And you are beautiful.”
“You’re hella talented,” Max joins in.
“We need more plus-sized rep on the big screen,” says the newcomer. “And then maybe just be called actors instead of getting labeled by size like we’re fucking articles on a rack.”
“Shit,” I say, looking at all three of them. “You’re making this seem real.”
“It’s real, babe,” Gigi says. “You just need to accept it.”
Rolling my eyes, I squeeze her hand before heading up to the dungeon to shoot the most important scene of my life.
35
Zion
“Sound!” Enid’s AD calls out, followed by the sound woman’s response of, “Sound rolling!” The fact that she usually films porn flicks didn’t bother Enid—or the director of photography she brought in—at all.
I’m standing by a well-lit Saint Andrews cross to which my scantily-clad wife is currently cuffed, like Fay Wray in the remake: Kink Kong. She’s in this very racy, barely-there, bright orange lace negligée, selected by Lamé, of course. It looks about as comfortable as the thigh-hugging leather pants they’ve put me in. I’m slightly out of breath from the fifty push-ups I just did to get my muscles pumping and my veins popping and my skin—like Twyla’s—has been oiled to a sheen.
I accept the flogger from Tage, our props person—aka Steely Dan when camp’s in session—and weigh it in my hand. It’s not mine, but it’s a good little tool, with wide, soft falls in a shimmering silver that will look great on camera. I do a quick figure eight in the air and nod at Tage’s unspoken question. “Perfect. Thanks.” They smile and step out of the shot and I breathe deep and look at my wife.
And pop an immediate boner. Thankfully, the fucking anaconda pants have got it in a stranglehold, which I realize, with a flash of inspiration, was Lamé’s intention. God, how well they know me. I peer around, catch sight of them, and nod a huge thank you. Lamé winks in response. They know.
Everyone here knows.
Except for the two execs in the canvas seats against the back wall, along with their small army of assistants and the television folks we’ve invited in for an exclusive first look at the next picture in theEverwarsfranchise. Possibly also the Director of Photography. But that’s it. Everyone else is a kinkster at heart. Everyone else is in on it.
My God, if we get away with this, it’ll be…
I swallow.
Shit, don’t think about it. Just do your thing.
I cast a quick look around at the “Extras,” played by real kinksters, of course, but looking like the tamped down Hollywood version of themselves. I get a few nervous smiles in return, which is funny, given that this is their world.
Not anymore, it’s not. Right now, we’re on a movie set, masquerading as a dungeon. It’s weird. But it looks good. This is my world. Both of them, actually, blended. Kink and film.
The Lifestyle, meets the Industry. And it’s not so bad.
