It’s a knife in my gut. Which makes no sense because this isn’t any sort of revelation. Of course Logan is always fucking other people—it’s his job.
But she’s said it in such a way that makes me think she’s insinuating that Logan fucked other girls off set when she was with him. And maybe he did. But I can’t know that unless I ask Logan. And suddenly I’m painfully aware of all the things I’ve never asked Logan, all the things I don’t know about him or about us, things I’m not sure I have the right to ask. Things I’m not sure I want to know the answer to.
Someone calls from the set behind me. “You Devi Dare?”
“Me?” I twist my head and see both the director and Bruce staring at me. “Yes.”
“Gotta run,” Raven says, and she’s gone before I can even say goodbye.
As much as I didn’t want a confrontation with her, I’m almost disappointed that she’s left. Or, rather, I’m disappointed that she’s left and I’m still agitated.
“I want to shoot in five,” the director says in a tone that suggests he wants to shoot now but knows I’m not ready. “Do you know what you’re wearing?”
With Raven gone, I have nothing keeping me in the entryway. I cross to him. My knees feel weak, and I’m distracted, and I wish I could focus on the things distracting me instead of on what I should be wearing before I’m not wearing anything.
But I can’t.
When I reach the director, I hold out my Ralph’s bag. “I have other options.”
Without looking at my clothes, he shoos the bag away. “Not necessary. We’re already running long on some of the other scenes. This one needs to be concise.”
“What are you thinking?” The buddy-buddy way Bruce confers with the director puts me immediately on guard.
For the first time since I’ve arrived, I scan the room. The crew is entirely comprised of men. Middle-aged white men, to be precise. The director’s assistant is a blonde in a short skirt. The gray-bearded lighting guy’s T-shirt reads, “It won’t suck itself.” The cameraman is ogling the girls dressing in the next room—the kitchen, which seems to be the makeshift dressing room. There’s no door, so everyone can watch the performers dress, which might seem like no big deal since we’re shooting porn, but it is a big deal. To me it is. This set is a total boy’s club—the kind of set I have managed to avoid in my three-year career.
“I’m thinking we lose the clothes,” the director says to Bruce. “Cut the time it takes her to strip. Let’s put her in a robe and maybe she’s cleaning up after dinner and then you come in and fuck her on the table.”
“Ooo,I like that,” Bruce says, his pupils dilating as he leers at me.
“Debs, see if there are some dishes in the kitchen cabinets we can use for this scene.”
“How does that sound to you, Devi?” LaRue Hagen puts his hand on my arm startling me with both his touch and his presence. I hadn’t seen him until just now and hadn’t been sure he’d even be on set today.
I’m grateful he is—not only is he a friendly face, but he’s the only person who seems to care what my opinion is about the proposed changes to the scene.
“It sounds—” ridiculous, unrealistic, and grossly male-centric. The dishes the director’s assistant is already setting out on the table aren’t dirty—why would I be clearing them? Yes, I know, porn isn’t about making sense, just…
Ugh.
But, honestly, if it shortens the scene, I’m game. “It sounds okay to me. Thank you for asking. Is there another room where I can get undressed? A room with a door?”
The director doesn’t hide his eye roll, but LaRue smiles reassuringly. “Definitely. Why don’t you use the office? I believe there’s a mirror above the mini-bar. We’re running late, though, so get yourself changed and back out here quickly.”
“Sure.”
I scurry into the office and shut the door, which doesn’t lock, but I don’t have time to be annoyed. It only takes a minute to undress and put on my robe. Then I take another minute to center myself. My head is all over the place, and I need to be focused to do my job.
The breath goes in, the breath goes out, I say to myself, concentrating on the air as it fills my lungs then as I release it. The breath goes in, the breath goes out. The breath goes in, the breath goes out.
I bet Raven knows Logan’s real name.
The thought is sudden and paralyzing, but before I can recover there’s a knock on the door.
“Devi?” LaRue says through the wood door. “We’re ready for you.”
I’m not ready for them. I’m not ready for any of this.
I open the door about to give an excuse to stall, but before I can say anything, LaRue’s ushering me back to the set. “Everything okay, Dev?”
I’m not sure that he’s really interested in my answer, and I get it. It’s his money we’re burning with every minute the camera isn’t rolling. He’s a good guy, though, and I think he’d genuinely want to know that I’m having issues.
So I decide to tell him. “Actually,” and then LaRue’s phone starts buzzing in his pocket.
“Excuse me,” he says as he pulls it out to look at the screen. He clicks the talk button saying, “I’m sorry, I’ve got to take this. Jerry, hi!” Cell to his ear, LaRue makes his way through the naked women in the kitchen and steps outside on the back lanai, closing the sliding door behind him.
With his boss gone, the director, who has yet to introduce himself, gets more assertive. “Okay, Devi, babe. Drop the robe, will ya, so we can set light levels. Debs tried to step in for you, but you’re darker than her.”
It’s not a racist comment, yet he sounds like a douche when he says it. Possibly because he’s telling me to take my clothes off in the same breath. Yes, I’m comfortable with my clothes off, but typically the directors I work with still respect that I’m a person, not just a body. They’re courteous and nurturing, and conscious of what I need to feel safe while performing.
Maybe this is just the way het sex works, though. Maybe I really am as naïve as Raven seemed to suggest I was.
At the thought of ultra-pro Raven, I undo my belt and shed the robe.
“Nice,” the director says with a wink. He continues to chat with me while the bearded guy checks the light levels against my skin. “When the camera rolls, you’ll be gathering these dishes. Bruce will come in behind you and pull off the robe. The dishes are plastic so it’s okay if you drop them. Bruce and I have worked through the choreography, so you just let him lead.”
I throw a glance toward Bruce who’s staring at me while Debs is fluffing his cock. So he’ll be hard when the scene starts. That means he won’t need time to get aroused, and since we’ve already cut the undressing, I’m afraid foreplay is going to be cut all together.
The idea makes me uncomfortable. “I’d rather know the sequence for myself. Could you go over it, please?”
The director shakes his head curtly. “If you wanted to know the sequence, you should have been to the set on time. Okay, everyone, we’re ready to shoot.”
As I tie the belt of my robe again, Bruce zips up his jeans and gives me a predatory grin. “Go ahead and make it tight, sweetheart. It’s not going to stop me.”
And then I realize—I can’t.
I can’t do this.
I can’t tune out the warning bells in my head. I can’t dismiss this sexist environment. I can’t pretend I feel safe on this set. And I can’t have sex with Bruce Madden.
And even if Logan will always be fucking other people, and even though I don’t know if I can handle that, I do know with a fair amount of certainty that a good part of the reason I can’t have sex with this caveman alpha in front of me is Logan.
So when the director calls places, I shake my head, and without an apology, I quit.
Fifteen
The director yells behind me as I run from the room. “You can’t quit! You’re already here. You’re already naked. Just do the fuck—”
I make it to the office and
slam the door. The director’s voice turns into muffled noise, and I let out a sigh of relief.
It’s not like me to make emotional or spur-of-the-moment decisions, but I feel justified. The list of reasons I can’t do this scene is comprehensive and rational:
1. I don’t feel comfortable on this set.
2. I don’t feel safe on this set.
3. The director refused to explain what my performance partner would do to me in the scene.
4. I don’t trust my partner.
But as logical and sensible as I am about this, as clearly as I can state my complaints, I’m lying to myself if I don’t admit that the biggest reason for quitting is Logan. The other reasons just make it easier to follow through with my heart on this one.
Footsteps outside the office spur me into action. Eventually someone will come after me, and I’d prefer to be clothed and ready to leave when they do. I head to the desk where I piled my belongings when I’d stripped earlier.
The door opens as soon as I move from it. I peer over my shoulder to find Bruce. Gritting my teeth, I pretend his presence irritates me rather than makes me nervous. “I’m getting dressed in here.”
Ignoring the hint, he enters the room. “That’s a shame.”
“I’m asking you not to come in here.” I step into my panties and pull them up under my robe, wanting desperately to be dressed.
Bruce swaggers over to me. “Calm your tits, sweets. I’m just coming in here to make sure you’re okay.” He reaches a hand out and rests it on my upper arm. “Okay?”
I let out a breath of air, willing my shoulders to relax. Maybe I’m being paranoid where he’s concerned. The only thing Bruce is guilty of at this point is being a man in a man’s business. He just wants to do his job, and here I am fucking with that. “Yes. Sorry. I’m just not in the right mindset for this. Things weren’t presented to me quite accurately.”
I pull at the knot at my waist and accidentally make it tighter. “Jesus Christ,” I mutter, frustrated.
“Here. Let me help you.” He grabs the ends of my belt and drags me toward him. Immediately I tense, not sure if I should be wary or not. I barely breathe as he works the knot. When it’s loosened, I start to pull away, but he pulls me back, opening my robe completely. His lip curls into a devilish smile. “Told you this wouldn’t stop me from getting you naked.”
I tug at the garment, trying to close it, but Bruce wraps each end of my belt around his hands, drawing me even closer to him.
My heart is hammering so loud in my chest, I wonder if he can hear it. “Stop it.” My voice is quiet and strained. “Please. I want you to go.”
“Hey, I’m just playing around.” He lets go of the belt, but before I can move away, his hands grip my bare hips.
“Don’t touch me.” I try again to pull away, but his fingernails dig into my skin.
His eyes are dark and full of greed as he smirks. “God, you’re such a fucking tease. It’s really not nice when you tease like you do.”
“I’m not a tease.” Again, I try to push him away, but Bruce is stronger than me.
“You are. You took your clothes off and made me want you.” He leans against the desk and positions himself so my legs are caught in his. Now he has more freedom to rove his hands over me. He jerks me forward so my pelvis bumps against his cock. He bucks into me. “Feel that. You did that.”
My throat goes dry as I suddenly become aware of the gravity of the situation. If I don’t start seriously fighting back, there’s a good chance this could end with me bent over and Bruce having his merry old way with me—the very thing I’d left the set trying to avoid.
I struggle in earnest now.
“I think you should lick it.”
“I’m not licking anything. Let me go.”
“Come on, Dev. Just a little taste. Lick me.” With his leg coiled around me and one hand snaked around my waist, he tries to push my head toward his crotch. “Are you going to make this easy? Or are you going to make this fun?”
My eyes are watering now. My throat’s tight. “I’ll scream.”
“Fun then.” Bruce pushes my head down again, this time with more force. I can’t fight him—he’s too strong—but I try anyway, flailing and kicking.
I’m gathering my voice to let out a scream when there’s a knock on the door “Devi?”
Bruce freezes and, before he can think to prevent me, I shout, “Come in!”
The door opens, and LaRue walks in. Bruce still has his hands on me, but this time when I pull out of his grasp, he lets go. I wrap the robe around me, holding it tightly at my neck and waist.
The producer looks from me to Bruce and back to me. “Everything okay in here?”
Fuck. No. Not okay in the least.
Bruce is the one who answers first. “Thought I could make her a little more comfortable before filming. That’s all.” He lifts his hand to draw two fingers down my cheek. “See you on set, Devi.”
I shudder and wrap my arms tighter around myself. My lips are trembling and I can’t tell if I’m about to cry or throw up. I want to get out of here more than ever, but I can’t move. I can’t speak. If LaRue hadn’t come after me, if he hadn’t interrupted….
“Hey, what’s this I hear about you quitting?”
I barely register what he says, practically crying as I let out a tremulous breath. “Thank you. For coming when you did. Bruce…he…he just…”
Concerned, LaRue steps toward me. But I flinch when he reaches his hand out. “What is it?” he asks.
“He tried to come on to me. He wouldn’t stop.” I’m shook up, completely unsettled, and it’s difficult to form my scattered thoughts into sentences so I just repeat myself. “He wouldn’t stop. He wouldn’t stop.”
My skin burns where Bruce touched me, as if his fingers had been doused in acid, and I feel the urgent need to shower and scrub, though I also never want to take my clothes off again.
LaRue drops his hands to his sides, and the look on his face is both cautious and perplexed. “Bruce Madden just tried to come on to you?” he asks slowly.
“Yes!” Didn’t I fucking say that? “After I said no!”
“Well, Devi.” He pauses as if about to deliver news he thinks I don’t want to hear, and I can already tell he’s right. “You are here to make porn. What did you expect would happen?”
My heart feels like it’s in my throat, and it was already pounding so hard I was sure it would bruise my insides. I blink up at LaRue several times. “Jesus, are you kidding me?”
LaRue cocks his hip against the desk. “I was going to ask the same about you. You signed a contract to do a certain type of work for me, and now you’re not only walking out of that contract, but are crying foul when other people on my set expect you to live up to what you agreed to? That’s not how this business works.”
His tone is calm and reasonable, and for a fraction of a second I think he may be right—that I am obviously the one in the wrong, that it’s my choices that have put me in this situation, that I’m being too sensitive. What had Bruce Madden really done, anyway? Touched my skin? I’d come here today with the intention of letting him doing so much more.
But then the moment of doubt passes and a lifetime of lessons in self-respect and personal rights takes hold of my emotions, turning them to blind rage. “First of all,” I channel my anger into talking points. “I quit because the terms I agreed to were not being met. Second of all, this room is not your set. Third of all, even if it were, I still get to decide what happens to me. Just because I signed a contract doesn’t mean I give up consent. That’s not how my body works.”
LaRue shakes his head, incredulous. “Damn, I knew you were young, but I didn’t think you were so naïve. Do you realize what you’ve cost me today? I’ve already had to pay the crew for thirty minutes of standing around because you were running late and now because of your cold feet. If you’re not careful, you’re going to get a reputation for being a diva, and that’s no way to launch the
next part of your career.”
I’m still angry, still indignant, but LaRue’s chiding is an echo of Raven’s earlier words, and self-doubt forces me into an apology I don’t mean. “I’m sorry that I’ve wasted your money. That wasn’t my intention.”
“Doesn’t matter what your intention was. I’ve lost money and I expect you to help recuperate my expenses.”
I turn my head sharply in his direction and tighten my arms around my chest, instantly wary of what he expects in the form of retribution.
He waves his hand, seeming to understand what I assume he’s suggesting. “I’m sure you give a fine fuck, but even if you have a golden cunt, it’s not going to translate to cash unless you wipe your eyes, pull yourself together, and go out there and shoot this scene. Give me a dynamite performance, and I’ll forget that we had a rocky start.”
He turns to leave as though the conversation is over, as though the matter is settled.
I’m flabbergasted. “Like hell, I’m shooting anything with you. I don’t care what I cost you. I’m out of here.”
Though I’d prefer to dress without him in the room, that want is a far second to the need to leave. I pull my cut-off shorts on then turn away from him to shed my robe and put on my T-shirt, foregoing a bra in favor of speedy dressing.
For the first time he’s come into the room, LaRue’s voice sharpens. “You walk out of here without doing that scene, and you’ve just kissed your career goodbye.”
I slip my feet into my flip-flops and gather up my Ralph’s bag. “Well, let’s just see what happens when I tell people what happened today.”
“Tell who what? Who’s even going to care what you have to say? Naïve, Devi.” His words hit my backside as I rush out of the room. “Your agent will be hearing from me,” he shouts after me.
I manage to make it out of the house and to my car without anyone stopping or bothering me, but I’m on the road before I finally take a real breath. And then I burst into tears. I don’t know where to go. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what I want or what to think, so I drive aimlessly as the sun sinks lower in the sky, trying to gather my thoughts together. I’ve spent three years in the erotica industry and have never felt so violated. I’ve heard stories from other performers, stories of abuse and harassment, and yet it always felt so far away from me. And it was far away from me—because I’d carefully chosen my projects and producers, because I’d made sure that the jobs I’d taken had been vetted by people I trust.
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