by Jason Luke
“What do you think of, ‘Ricky’s L.A. Adventure’, as a title for my next DVD?” I asked suddenly.
Connie made a face like she had stepped in something on the sidewalk. “Is that the best you can come up with?” she asked. “It hardly screams, ‘buy me!’.”
I smiled, and nodded my head. “Good point,” I admitted. I stared up at the ceiling for a moment, as if the answer might be written in big letters there. It wasn’t. “How about, ‘Wicked Teen Sluts of America’s West Coast’?”
“Better,” she said. I went to the desk and wrote the title down on a scrap of paper.
Connie tilted her head inquisitively and narrowed her eyes. She paused for a moment, like she was searching for the right words, and then asked, “Tell me the downside. Tell me what you don’t like about being a porn actor.”
I didn’t hesitate. I didn’t have to gaze thoughtfully off into the distance because I knew the answer immediately. “Intimacy,” I said. “That’s the downside.”
Connie leaned forward. “What do you mean?” she asked softly.
“Working in this industry comes at a cost,” I said. “The price you pay is the intimacy that most people enjoy and take for granted in their lives.”
“Because of all the sex?”
“Yes,” I said. “It’s very difficult to maintain a relationship when you work in this industry,” I explained. “The sex is always physical, and it’s rare that you get the opportunity to really connect with anyone on a level beyond emotionally superficial.”
Connie’s expression was subdued and serious. She was watching me with careful eyes.
“I miss the intimacy of a real relationship,” I admitted. “I miss having that special someone in my heart and in my life. I miss kissing someone who I care deeply for, and I miss making love, Connie. I miss loving someone physically and with the emotional passion that people in love enjoy.”
“That sounds sad,” Connie said.
I shrugged. “This industry is demanding. It’s like being a professional athlete. The best, most vibrant years of your life have to be dedicated completely to your passion if you want to succeed. Then, maybe at thirty or thirty-five, you realize your career is over because you don’t have what it takes anymore to compete with the younger stars rising around you. So before the age of forty, most people in the industry are washed up and forgotten – cast aside and left to fend for themselves in a world they never really grew up in. They have no experience of love, or how to find it,” I shrugged, “or what it even feels like.”
Connie sat pensively for a long moment and then looked up. “You say you miss love, Rick… but to miss something so powerful means you must have experienced it…”
“Once,” I said with a forlorn sigh.
“Want to tell me about it? How old were you?”
“Twenty-three,” I said.
“And…?”
I sighed, overcome by a sudden sense of heaviness at the memory. “And I was living in Italy.”
Connie looked intrigued. “Was the girl you fell in love with Italian?”
I nodded. “I met her when I was in Europe. I was working in porn, and had a contract with a film producer who was based in Italy, so I moved there for eight months and shot about a dozen films in that time.”
“Was the girl you loved a porn actress?”
I shook my head. “No, she was a photographer. She was studying photographic art. I met her at a little sidewalk café one afternoon.”
“Sounds romantic.”
“She was beautiful,” I said softly. “Her name was Amelia. She was living away from her family while she studied. She had a tiny little studio apartment above a pastry shop.”
“What do you remember of her?”
I smiled wistfully. “Everything,” I said. “She had the face of an angel, and the most beautiful smile. She smoked cheap French cigarettes and when she looked at me, I swear she could see straight through to my soul.”
“I didn’t know you spoke Italian.”
“I didn’t – and I still don’t. But somehow when I was with Amelia words didn’t seem important. Everything she said was in her eyes and the touch of her fingertips. It was in the way she smiled, the way she moved. She was love in motion.”
I glanced up at Connie. She had her elbows propped on her knees, sitting on the edge of the sofa with her chin cupped in her hands, gazing at me.
“The first time we made love was on the rooftop of her apartment building,” I smiled to myself fondly. “Amelia brought a bottle of wine and I brought a blanket, and we sat, high above the city, looking down at the lights and up at the stars. That’s when I learned the difference between making love and having sex,” I said. “That was the night I grew up, I suppose. Everything before that evening with Amelia was about the physical. After that night I realized I was a changed man. Something inside me had come alive… and then died again when we eventually broke up.”
“How long did the romance last?”
I shook my head. “A few months,” I said softly.
“Did she know you were a porn actor?”
“No. I told her I was in advertising.”
Connie looked suddenly intrigued. “Why didn’t you tell her what you did for a living, Rick? Were you embarrassed?”
“No,” I shook my head. “I’ve never been embarrassed about the work I do. I’m proud of my body of work over the years. I didn’t tell Amelia because I knew she wouldn’t understand.”
“And did the romance end when your work finished in Italy?”
“Before that,” I said sadly. “One day she followed me to where we were filming,” I made a helpless gesture with my hands. “She thought I was having an affair.” I dropped my eyes to the floor. “In hindsight, it probably would have been better if I had been. At least that she could have understood.”
“I’m sorry,” Connie said in a whisper.
I looked up and smiled. “That was all a long time ago,” I said like it didn’t hurt anymore. “But one day… one day when I’m finished making porn films, I want that again, Connie. I want that all-consuming passion for someone. I want to love someone in the way the great poets write about it. I want to love someone so much that I know if I ever lose them my heart will break.”
I needed a drink – badly.
I went into the kitchen and spent a long time staring at the litter of bottles on the counter, before mixing together a witch’s brew. I drained the glass in a single gulp and prayed the numbness would come quickly while I tried to think about something else.
Connie watched me in silence. She waited until I had come back into the living room, and then glanced up at me from out of the corner of her eye. “What do you believe is the attraction of porn for men?”
“The attraction?”
She nodded. “What is it about porn films that men find so interesting?”
I smiled. “Well, I have a theory… if you would like to hear it.”
“Sure.” She flipped through her notebook until she found a new blank page and squirmed on the sofa for a few seconds to get herself comfortable.
“I think a lot of men watch porn films because, in their heart, they want to believe that sexy women really do exist,” I said.
Connie looked nonplussed. She sprinkled me with a cold little smile. “That’s it? That’s your theory?”
I nodded. “That’s what I believe in a nut-shell,” I said. I found a half-empty bottle of rum, hidden in the litter of empty bottles on the kitchen counter. I poured myself a drink.
“A lot of men live boring lives with boring wives,” I explained. “They watch porn because they want to believe that somewhere in the world, sexy nymphomaniac women really do exist. Guys want to hang on to the dream that one day a woman like the ones they watch in porn films will walk into their lives,” I said.
Connie’s head was bowed over her notebook.
“Watching porn is a way of escaping the reality of the dragon-wife they’re married to who only wan
ts sex once every few weeks, and then only in the missionary position, and only in the bedroom after the kids are asleep… and only with the lights out. And only for fifteen minutes.” I said, then stood there, like Napoleon, with one of my hands tucked inside the opening between my shirt buttons.
(I was scratching).
Connie shook her head, but diligently wrote down everything I said.
“You don’t agree with my theory?”
She looked up and shrugged. “It makes sense, I suppose,” she conceded. “But if it’s true, it’s sad. Very sad.”
I laughed. “Why?”
“Because men are using pornography as a fantasy escape. Surely there is more to life than sex. Men must realize that.”
I made a wide-eyed face of mock horror. “Connie, millions of women read erotic romance novels. It’s exactly the same thing. The erotica books they read are all about charming, romantic leading men. And women read them because they want to cling to the fantasy that somewhere in the world guys like that really do exist and that, maybe one day, a man like that will walk into their world and they can escape the overweight slob of a husband they married who only buys them a card on their birthdays, and always forgets their anniversary… and never takes them out to elegant restaurants.” I waved my arms in the air like I was trying to throw away my hands. “Where is the difference?”
“They’re harmless romance novels, for heaven’s sake!” Connie gave me the sort of glare that was calculated to shrivel me into silence.
“They’re mommy-porn,” I countered. “They fill women’s heads and imaginations with impossible fantasy men. Hell, I bet there are thousands of women around the world right now reading those books and dreaming of what it would be like to live with one of those fictional men,” I gulped down the last of the rum in the bottom of my glass before going on. “Well there are just as many guys dreaming about living with one of the girls in my films. There might be slight differences in the media being used… but the message and the attractions are the same for both sexes.”
Connie set aside her pen and pad. She was looking at me with a serious expression.
“Is that why you make porn films?” she asked. “To fuel those male fantasies?”
“No,” I shook my head. “I make porn films to entertain. Maybe you should ask an erotic romance author why they write the books they do – whether it’s to fuel women’s fantasies, or merely to create an entertaining escape for readers.”
“What do you think?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know,” I said, exasperated. “I don’t write erotic romance books for women, Connie. I make porn films for men.”
“Does the reality match the fantasy you create?”
I frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Are the girls in your films always the adventurous sex-hungry creatures that they portray on film?”
“No,” I said, my voice flat and emphatic. “The girls in my films are generally very sexual women,” I agreed, “but after filming ends, they are girlfriends and wives, daughters and mothers. They catch buses, cook dinners, do laundry. They don’t spend their entire lives jumping from one bed to another. Sure, they love sex, and they love their work… but it’s still work. It’s not the sum of them, Connie – it’s a part of them.” I went to the window and stared out at the view so that I spoke my next words at the glass.
“I’m sure erotic romance authors don’t write books about real people,” I said. “They create leading men who might be based on someone they know, but the truth is that their characters are probably a mixture of reality and author fantasy. My actresses are the same.”
When I finally turned back to face the room, Connie was writing notes. She finished with a sudden flourish, underlined a couple of words, then looked up to find me quietly gazing at her.
She leaned back, arched her spine to stretch, and yawned at the same time. The movement of her body thrust her breasts out and put strain on the second button of her blouse so that the top gaped open and I caught a fleeting glimpse of white lace bra and creamy soft cleavage.
I wilted theatrically, and slumped against the wall. My head dropped and I shook it from side to side as if to clear a dazed fog.
“Rick – are you okay?” I heard the sudden alarm in Connie’s voice.
I glanced up. Nodded, then straightened with dramatic care. “Yes,” I said bleakly. “I’ll be fine in a few minutes.”
The sound of concern stayed in her voice. Connie leaned forward. “What happened? What’s wrong with you?”
I rubbed my forehead as though massaging away headache and tension. “I saw the lace of your bra, and I got an erection,” I said, stifling a grin to draw the joke out to its punch line. “My cock… it’s so big that when it gets hard it takes all the blood from my head to fill it. So I faint.”
Connie’s expression morphed from concern to bitter apathy. “You’re joking, right?” she asked dryly.
“Maybe…”
If Connie was laughing, it was on the inside, and well concealed by an unimpressed scowl. She went on crisply.
“What is your mindset when you are performing with a woman… or several of them?”
“Do you mean my attitude?”
“No. I want to know what you are thinking about when you’re performing in one of your sex scenes.” Her voice changed, becoming warmer and more personal. “Are you concentrating on the girls you are working with… are you trying to get yourself off… or are you thinking about camera angles and directing the scene?”
“Aah,” I suddenly understood. I was impressed. “Good question.”
“Thanks,” Connie brightened under even the briefest moment of flattery.
“It’s difficult,” I admitted. I glanced over my shoulder to the kitchen counter where I had left my glass, and regrettably decided I couldn’t fetch it without enhancing Connie’s belief that I had a drinking problem. I went across to the big desk and leaned against it, my arms folded across my chest. “In the back of my mind I am always thinking about the scene – where the cameras are, and what is being captured on film,” I said. “Because we don’t work to a detailed script, I can’t orchestrate close ups, or have a pre-production plan for what camera angles will be used at any particular moment, so the camera work is critical. My guys need to be instinctive. They need to anticipate those moments where the girl’s face is going to show pleasure or ecstasy, and be ready for it.
“The actual mechanics – the physicality of a scene – could be filmed by anyone who can hold and focus a camera. It’s certainly not rocket science,” I smiled openly, “but the emotion and reactions of the girls – their expressions – are what makes my films so much more than just smut, so they are crucial moments that can’t be replicated. The camera has to be there to capture every spontaneous instant.”
“So you always have your director’s cap on?” Connie lifted an eyebrow.
“Always,” I confessed. “Even though my guys are the best in the business, and they know how I work, I’m always worrying that a vital expression or moan of pleasure will be missed.”
“That must make performing more difficult?” Connie flushed soft color under her cheeks and she was suddenly appealing and almost child-like in the way she gazed at me.
“It can, I guess,” I shrugged, “but I don’t have sex on film for pleasure, Connie. I did when I first started out in this business – what guy wouldn’t love every moment – but after all these years, it really is just my job.”
“With benefits.”
I nodded and smiled. “The benefits are obvious, but for all that, what you see of me on film is purely Rick Cassidy the porn actor, not Rick the guy.”
“So you don’t have sex with multiple partners in your personal life when you are away from filming?” Her smile changed slowly and the color in her cheeks darkened.
“No!” I laughed. “It’s too exhausting.” I pushed myself away from the desk, and glanced longingly at the kitchen counter where my glass and a
fresh bottle of bourbon were waiting. When I spoke again, my voice was neutral. “I orgasm twice a day for twenty filming days each month – maximum. And these days it is becoming less because I am trying to step back from filming and bring other guys in to take my place. Like today, for example. A few years ago I would have put myself into both the scenes we shot by the swimming pool. Now, Roland and Victor are here to take one of the scenes.”
“But you still enjoyed the scene with that young girl today, Rick. You certainly looked like you did.”
I nodded. “Sure,” I said. “I enjoy sex, Connie. And I love women. Part of what you saw with Lily was pleasure, and part was work. It’s a good job that I enjoy,” I said again, “but it’s still just my job.”
Connie made notes, then flicked back through the pages.
“So what is your attitude when you film?”
“You want to know how I approach a scene?”
“Yes,” she said. “Do you always walk on set like a dominant Alpha male, like you did with that girl today?”
“I do,” I said. “Part of that is my personality. I’m a take-charge kind of guy. Part of it is also because of my role as director. As a dominant performer I can position the girls the way I want: move them and choreograph the action to show them off in the best possible light. Without that control, some of the actresses lose their way. They’re looking to be guided – they’re accustomed to being compliant to the requirements of the scene.”
“Is it a fine line?” Connie whispered, the words sounding husky deep in her throat.
“I guess it can be,” I said, seriously considering the issue for the first time. It wasn’t something I had ever thought about consciously until Connie had asked the question.
“A guy can go on set and ‘fuck angry’ – know what I mean?”
“I think so…”
“He can be too aggressive, be too dominating,” I explained. “You can see it in his face and his gestures – and the way he is with the girl. I don’t want that kind of attitude on film – not even in a gang-bang scene,” I insisted. “The guys have to be firm, but there also has to be respect. I don’t want my actresses being filmed as victims. They always need to be enthusiastic and willing, because with their enthusiasm they retain power. Once they are forced, or held down and taken in such a way that they are overpowered or lose their dignity because of the guy’s aggression, the scene loses all of its sexiness.”