Interview With a Porn Star

by Jason Luke

  The camera swept over the blonde girl as she took me deep into her mouth and then the lens captured a view of Astrid from between her spread thighs. Her long fingers were dipping in and out of her pussy. I waited for the shot to clear, and then eased myself back inside her.

  With the blonde on her knees waiting patiently, I fucked Astrid with long thrusting strokes so that her whole body was rocked by the impact. She swayed like a tree before a rising wind and her moans and muttered whispers of encouragement became louder.

  Again I sensed she was on the edge of her own release. I slid my cock back into the blonde’s mouth to draw out the exquisite moment of Astrid’s orgasm.

  “That girl gave lousy head,” I confessed in the dark to Connie. “She was all teeth and no technique.”

  I saw Connie turn her face. She stared directly at me. She sounded surprised. “You look like you are enjoying it.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Put that down to acting,” I smiled. “In reality, all I was doing was playing for time. I like each scene to run for about thirty minutes, and I realized at this point of shooting that Astrid was close to coming.”

  “Is that so bad?”

  “Yeah, it can be,” I said. “Once the actress has orgasmed, the scene loses all its intensity and passion,” I said. “The very best scenes are the ones where the girl reaches the edge but never quite releases. That way you are sure of passion and emotion right up until the money shot.”

  Connie almost looked distressed. “You like it when the girl doesn’t come?”

  “The film likes it,” I said. “It’s very hard to get lust and arousal on the screen when the woman you are fucking has had an orgasm ten minutes into shooting. Generally that burn of desire fades from their eyes and the chemistry between us is gone.”

  Connie shook her head. “That must be very frustrating.”

  “For me?”

  Connie shook her head. “For the girls.”

  “It’s the job,” I shrugged, “and just because they don’t come on film doesn’t mean they don’t come. After we finished shooting this scene, Astrid and this blonde spent an hour together getting each other off in the shower.” I shrugged again. “The porn industry is like that. The sex that you see on the screen is not the only sex that happens. It’s not like these girls just turn up, get undressed and spread their legs when the director calls ‘action!’ Often while we’re waiting around to set up new scenes you’ll find a couple of girls in the corner fingering each other or a girl going down on one of the guys…”

  Connie looked like she was about to say something else but then the words just died on her lips as the screen filled with a close up shot of my cock forcing its way deeper and deeper down the blonde’s throat. Connie’s eyes were torn back to the screen as Astrid rose from her hands and knees and settled herself beside the blonde. The girls took turns sucking and stroking the end of my shaft so that the scene turned into an oral competition between the actresses for the next few moments. Finally I fisted my fingers in Astrid’s long black hair and held her head still while I began to buck and rock my hips. The blonde leaned forward and fluttered her tongue around the base of my shaft and the camera caught an exquisite shot of the two girls on either side of my cock, their lips kissing and touching deliciously as I felt my orgasm quickly building.

  I pointed at the screen and clicked the ‘pause’ button. “This is where we cut,” I explained. “This is the one moment where we paused filming to make sure I had cameras in the right places to capture the climax from every angle. You can’t see it, but there are two other cameras set up – one over Astrid’s shoulder, and I had a handheld camera filming the girls from above.”

  Connie turned her body in her seat so that she was facing me. “You filmed your own orgasm?”

  “Sure,” I said. “Point-of-view filming is something that has become common in porn since these little hand-held cameras hit the market – but that’s mainly because you often have one guy filming, and it happens to be the guy involved in the scene. In fact, there is a whole genre of POV porn.” I screwed up my face in an expression of disapproval. “It’s not something I like,” I admitted, “because I feel like it cheapens the quality of the film. An actor with a handheld camera can’t keep the frame steady and concentrate on his orgasm at the same time – but because this is the money shot I need to make sure that it isn’t missed, and that it is as compelling as possible for the viewer.”

  Connie gave me an artless, wry expression. “Compelling? Don’t you mean graphic?”

  “I mean compelling,” I insisted. “Without the come shot at the end captured in an unique and interesting way, the proceeding twenty-nine minutes of film is wasted. It’s nothing more than frustrating foreplay, or a book that has the final page missing.”

  I clicked ‘play’ on the remote, and a few seconds later the surround-sound speakers echoed my cry of release. There was an instant close up of my face. I was sweating, my jaw clenched, my eyes dark and intense, and then I threw my head back and growled at the ceiling. The scene cut back, and a moment later I exploded across the faces of Astrid and the Russian girl who were kneeling before me with their cheeks pressed close together, their eyes wide with excited anticipation, their mouths open and willing. I erupted, and the girls caught the essence of me in their mouths and on their chins. I reeled out of shot and the camera that had been poised and filming at my side swept in quickly to follow the girls as they embraced and kissed, their tongues lingering and lapping and swapping the taste of me until the screen gradually faded away to black.

  We sat there in the darkness and the silence for long seconds. Without the light from the screen I could barely discern the shape of Connie’s face, but I could sense that she was turned towards me and there was a peculiar gleam in her eyes.

  It wasn’t wonder.

  It wasn’t the look of some new-found sense of appreciation.

  But maybe – just maybe – it was grudging respect.

  “Well…” I asked. “What did you think?”

  I heard Connie sigh, a soft exhalation of breath close by.

  “Different,” she conceded. “Very different to what I had expected.”

  “In a good way?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “How good?”

  “In a good way that… that surprised me.”

  I was intrigued, and besides, a little praise once in a while does my ego no harm, so I fished for compliments. “What did you think of the sets?”

  “They were much grander than I had thought.”

  “And the camera work?”

  “Good,” she admitted. “I didn’t expect so many different angles.”

  “As I said, we use two cameras – sometimes three. I like to mix hand-held cameras with stationary cameras so that I get a variety of shots to choose from when it comes to editing.”

  She chuckled, but it was a giddy, slightly breathless sound. “Well you certainly didn’t miss any of the action,” she admitted. “Any closer, and…”

  “Did you get turned on?” I asked.

  Connie fell silent. The sounds of her breathing seemed to stop, as though trapped. “Was I supposed to?” she asked warily.

  “Well, it is the purpose of porn.”

  Connie hesitated. “No comment.”

  I smiled to myself. “That’s a dead giveaway.”

  “No, it’s not,” Connie leapt to her own defense primly. “It means nothing more than the fact that I am unprepared to answer you.”

  Chapter 5.

  We emerged from the theatre room and I led the way upstairs, holding the door open for Connie with an elaborate bow of chivalry.

  “What you just saw was one scene from my latest film,” I said as she followed me down the hallway and back into the living room. It was late afternoon, and the sky had a smoldering, smoky haze to it. I stood at one of the big glass windows and stared down into the distant metropolis. “Each finished film has three or four scenes, so the running time is some
where over ninety minutes. I like to give viewers value for their money. It was more important in the days of video where fans would purchase VHS from their local adult store. These days,” I shrugged, “it’s not so important. Most of my films are viewed or downloaded online through my website – but I still like the idea of value. I still like the idea that when someone watches a Rick Cassidy film, they feel it is money well spent.”

  Connie had a harried flustered look on her face. “Should I be writing this down?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. You’re the journalist. What I’m telling you is not some kind of a prepared speech. I don’t have a handout I can give you of all this stuff. I just say what I think and what I feel – when I think and feel it.”

  Connie waved a finger in the air like she’d had a sudden ‘eureka’ moment, or that I had said something profound. She stood, weight on one leg, hip cocked so that the fabric of her skirt was stretched tight across her bottom, and she scribbled quickly into her notebook. I waited until she looked up.

  “Do you want that little speech about value again?”

  She smiled and shook her head. “I think I have it,” she said, and then she looked up at me suddenly as though struck by another spontaneous thought. “What’s a fluffer?”

  I did a double-take and frowned.

  “You mentioned the word when we were talking about old porn films – but you never explained what one was or how it was used.”

  I started smiling but then stopped myself. “A fluffer wasn’t any kind of equipment,” I explained. “A fluffer was a girl who worked behind the scenes of a porn film, as part of the makeup department.”

  Connie frowned. “Like a hairdresser?”

  I shook my head and lolled against the wall, my ankles crossed and one of my hands thrust into the pocket of my jeans. I smiled again, amused. “Not like a hairdresser,” I said. “A fluffer was a girl who was employed to keep the male acting talent erect between shots when filming a porn movie.”

  “Erect… as in – ”

  “Exactly,” I cut her off. “Sometimes on a porn set – especially when they were filming with one camera – it could be several minutes or maybe even half an hour between when they film one shot and when they moved the lighting and the camera to film the next shot. In that time the female actress might just lay on the bed waiting, but the male actor had a problem. All the delays would mean he often lost his erection, so that when the director was ready to film again, he was faced with the prospect of talent unable to perform.” I pushed myself away from the wall and crossed to the kitchen. All this talking was thirsty work. I needed another drink. I splashed bourbon into a glass, and didn’t bother with ice. “To solve this problem a lot of production films included a fluffer,” I said. “This girl got paid to use her mouth and body to keep the male talent aroused and erect so that when he walked back on set he was ready for action.”

  Connie stared aghast. “There were women who wanted to do that job?”

  I nodded. “The money was good, and the girl’s weren’t ever filmed,” I shrugged. “So I guess it had its benefits.”

  “Does it still happen? Have you ever used a fluffer on one of your films?”

  “No. Never,” I said. “Partially because of the way I film my scenes means there is no long delays between shots, and partially because I shoot with multiple cameras. And because of Viagra.”

  Connie said nothing. She was making notes as I spoke and she looked up at me as if to encourage me to continue.

  “Viagra changed everything,” I said. “Before it came along, male porn actors had a set of skills. Being able to perform in front of a film crew is not something every guy can do, and staying hard for an hour or two of filming is impossible for most guys. But since Viagra came along every guy thinks they can act in porn films. It’s no longer a question of skill, or talent, it’s simply a question of chemicals.”

  Connie scribbled furiously for several minutes and then glanced up at me cautiously. “Have you ever used Viagra?”

  I shook my head. “No, I’ve never needed to, and when I do need a tablet to get a hard on, I’ll walk away from this game for good.”

  I finished my drink, and splashed more bourbon into the glass. Connie set her notebook back down on the sofa and walked over to the big windows. I watched her, my eyes narrowed and appraising, admiring her lithe body and the way the clothes she wore accentuated her curves. She moved with feline grace and femininity. She stood at the window, staring out into the distance, as though her thoughts were miles away.

  Her legs were long and slender, and the glaring afternoon light cast her figure in a silhouette.

  “So tell me,” I asked bluntly, “is there a man in your life, Connie? Someone who keeps your bed warm at night? I know you’re not married – no wedding ring.”

  Connie turned from the window and gazed at me for a long silent moment and I saw wary caution creep into her eyes. She bit her lip like she was trying to decide how much she should tell me.

  “There is,” she said softly.

  “Really?

  She nodded.

  “What’s he like?”

  Connie sighed, but the sound wasn’t quite right. “His name is Robert,” she said uneasily. “He works at the magazine.”

  “Oh,” I was curious. “An office romance?”

  She nodded but said nothing more, so I probed.

  “Is he a journalist too?”

  “No,” Connie shook her head. “He works in the advertising department as a high-profile corporate consultant.”

  I smiled, interpreting the official-speak. “So he’s a salesman.”

  Connie said nothing. She folded her arms. The gesture lifted and pushed at the shape of her breasts, drawing them to my attention. Connie saw the direction of my eyes and her expression turned to ice. “He is a lovely, caring, considerate man,” she said.

  I nodded, still smiling. “I’m sure he is… but is he jealous?”

  Connie laughed with a flash of contempt. “No,” she said. “Robert has no need to feel jealous. He knows I adore him – and only him.”

  “Good!” I said. I slammed my empty glass down on the counter and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. “Then he won’t mind if I take you to dinner.”

  Connie froze. Her face filled with shock. “I beg your pardon.”

  I glanced at the wall clock, and tucked the tails of my shirt into my jeans. “I have a dinner meeting tonight with an old producer friend of mine – we’re meeting at a little restaurant in L.A.. I thought you might like to come along.”

  “Have dinner with you?”

  “Yes,” I said, amused by the way her face was changing and contorting, dealing with the information and her perceived implications.

  She balked. “I… I don’t know…” she stole a peek at her wrist watch. “What time?”

  I shrugged. “I’m meeting my friend at six… so any time after that. You can come with me right now, if you want.”

  “No!” she said, and then took a breath. “No – thank you.”

  I frowned. “‘No’ – you won’t come to dinner… or ‘no’, you won’t ride with me to the restaurant?”

  Connie settled herself. I was toying with her, and she was beginning to become annoyed. “I’ll come to dinner,” she said stiffly, like she was accepting a formal invitation, “but I will meet you at the restaurant.”

  I nodded. I spotted a sports coat draped over the backrest of a kitchen chair. I shrugged it on, and made for the door. There was a chunky set of house keys on a side table. I tossed them to Connie as I left and she caught them in her hand.

  “The restaurant is called ‘Mickey’s’. It’s off Sanders Street,” I grinned. “Lock up when you leave. I’ll get the keys back when I see you tonight.”

  Chapter 6.

  ‘Mickey’s’ was one of those wonderful little restaurants that are dotted around L.A. – if you know how to find them. Well off the track beaten by the city’s tourists, it was a qua
int little eatery with a clientele of regulars who came for the food, but then came back because of the discreet surroundings.

  There were no signs, and no menu in any window – just an on-street door that lead up a narrow set of stairs to a gloomy room with a low ceiling, dingy brown walls and thread-bare carpet. There were a dozen tables, and a counter across the far wall.

  All the tables were full.

  A young man with a brooding, sallow face greeted me at the top of the stairs. He looked Mediterranean. He had dark skin, dark hair. He was wearing an expensive suit. He looked me up and down carefully and gave the barest hint of a smile.

  “Mr. Cassidy. Nice to see you again, sir.”

  We shook hands. “Good to see you, Nico. It’s been a while.”

  The young man nodded, then glanced past me and indicated a corner table with a thrust of his chin. “Mr. Bellamy is waiting for you.”

  I smiled. “I have a lady-friend joining me a little later.”

  Nico nodded. “I’ll send her to your table when she arrives.”

  I wove my way through the tightly clustered tables towards a dark corner of the room where a man was sitting alone. He saluted me with a raised glass and a good-natured smile. “Ah, the prodigal son returns.”

  He was a big man, broad and heavy across the shoulders, his voice like a low bass rumble of thunder. He was middle-aged. He had grey wavy hair and a fleshy face, the skin blemished with sun-spots and spidery veins. There were dark pouches of color below his eyes and the folds of loose flesh that hung from his jowls were stubbled with beard.

  “Hi, John,” I said. “I hope you’re paying for this meal.”

  The man waved me to a chair with a hand the size of a baseball mitt. He was expensively dressed, but even the city’s best tailors couldn’t make a suit look good on his massive frame. He oozed that elusive unmistakable gloss of wealth – but he looked worn and rumpled, like something a dog had been chewing on.