Interview With a Porn Star

by Jason Luke

  She nodded with a wicked glint. “Yes, that’s right,” she closed the menu and handed it back to the waiter. “And ask the chef to burn it for me.”

  The waiter froze. I saw him dart a glance over his shoulder to the kitchen. “Are you sure, madam?”

  “With the fat trimmed off.”

  “Yes, madam,” the waiter said reluctantly.

  Connie nodded. “I like my steak the way I like my men – black and lean.”

  The waiter flinched. He looked aghast. He minced off towards the kitchen reluctantly.

  “That was funny,” I said. “I didn’t realize you had a sense of humor.”

  Connie chuckled. “I’ve been dying to use a line like that ever since I saw the movie, ‘Flying High’.” She sipped more of her champagne. A soft crimson flush of color was spreading across her cheeks and making her eyes sparkle in the candlelight. I watched her for a long moment and then I leaned across the table in the gloomy intimate light and dazzled Connie with my most charming smile.

  “Have you thought more about my offer?”

  She raised an eyebrow. “What offer?”

  “Sex,” I said, holding the smile until my face began to ache. “You and me in a big bed, all alone. Me covering your body with kisses as I slowly peel away your clothes. You, lying beneath me, writhing as my fingers and lips explore your breasts. My cock pressing against your thigh, you taking me in your hands…”

  Connie sat back so her face was shadowed. She reached for her champagne.

  “You don’t want me because you want me, Rick.”

  Huh?

  I shook my head. “What does that mean?”

  Connie sighed like she wished it wasn’t true. “You want me because you can’t have me, that’s all.”

  “Then let me have you.”

  She laughed, and maybe for the first time, it sounded genuine. “You want me because I am a challenge,” Connie said. “You’re used to every woman you meet willingly tumbling into bed with you. Then you meet me, and I’m not interested. That makes me a challenge – not an object of your desire.”

  “Maybe that’s what makes you so desirable.”

  Connie sat forward, set her glass down and propped her elbows on the table, cupping her face in her hands and gazing into my eyes. “You certainly don’t want me because of love… and you can’t possibly want to have sex with me because of some lust you feel. Jesus, you have sex with so many women you can’t possibly have that itch. It’s not like you haven’t laid eyes on a woman for six months.”

  “So? What are you getting at?”

  “Your motive,” she said simply. “You don’t have a good reason for wanting to take me to bed, other than the fact that I represent some kind of a challenge to you – and so you only want me because you can’t have me.”

  “Isn’t that a good enough reason?” I scowled. “How many reasons does a guy need to want to have sex with a woman?”

  Connie shrugged. “Then if you want sex, why not just go back to the house and fuck one of your actresses,” she said bluntly. “They’re younger than me, they’re prettier than me. They’re more experienced and more adventurous than me…”

  “But I want you.”

  “Because you haven’t had me.”

  “…Yet.”

  “And because you can’t have me,” Connie ignored my thrust.

  Our meals arrived. The waiter placed our plates on the table before us and turned on his heel without a look or a word. Connie and I stared down at the table. Our steaks looked like pieces of charcoal that had been dragged from a fire, surrounded by a delicate sprinkle of shredded vegetables.

  We ate in silence, and when the waiter next ghosted passed, I ordered a fresh bottle of champagne. Somewhere in the murky gloom, a young woman gasped and then squealed with delight. Heads turned and there was a smatter of applause. The young man seated opposite stood up and bowed.

  “How would you go about getting more women to watch porn movies, Rick?” Connie’s voice slurred at the edges of her words. She gazed at me with a fixed look in her eyes and leaned forward, frowning as though the question was something that had been troubling her deeply.

  I sat back and thought about that for a moment. “First, I would change the name,” I said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Pornography,” I said. “Porn. The fact is that the mention of the name comes with certain connotations, especially in the minds of women. They have the same preconceived notions that you had,” I said frankly. “So the first step would be to start calling porn something else.”

  “But it would still be porn.”

  “Of course,” I conceded. “But big companies often rebrand themselves to reach new markets. I would need some marketing wiz-kid to come up with a catchy name. That would be the first step.”

  Connie sipped at her champagne, then rested one elbow on the table and cupped her cheek in her hand. “Then what?”

  “I guess I would need to change the type of men who I use in films,” I frowned. “You see, right now the role of the man in a porn film is really quite secondary to the role of the actress. The guy is there to provide a long hard dick – and not much else. For a long time, the main requirement for a man in porn has been the size of his penis and his ability to get hard. If I was trying to reach a female audience I would need to start casting rugged, good-looking men, and spend more time filming them, rather than just focusing on the actress and the sex that takes place.”

  Connie nodded slowly. “Would that be difficult?”

  I nodded. “Yes, actually. It would be difficult.”

  Connie looked fascinated, but some of that fascination could be attributed to the alcohol. She was drinking like a fish. “Why?” She smiled like she was thinking about something more important.

  “Well, I can only think of one incredibly good looking guy with an amazing physique, rugged swarthy good looks and a phenomenal cock who can get hard and stay hard when required. And that’s me,” I joked.

  Connie gazed at me. She didn’t say anything. Maybe she hadn’t heard.

  I went on, “The truth is that there aren’t that many good looking guys who also have the physical requirements to perform in porn. Most good looking guys only have average-size cocks, and most really good looking guys – the ones who groom and use product and wear expensive Italian suits – well, they’re gay.”

  Connie stayed silent, and I wondered if I should tell her that I was only joking. She just gazed at me like she was hypnotized.

  I leaned forward and touched her fingers. “Are you okay?”

  Connie blinked and her eyes slowly came into some kind of focus. She smiled, but it was one of those languid smiles that just slipped straight back off her lips. She widened her eyes like she had seen something frightening. “I’m fine,” she said in a soft daze. “I’m just enjoying listening to the sound of your voice.”

  “You’re drunk.”

  Connie sat upright suddenly. “I am not!” she said defensively.

  I set my wine glass down on the table. “I think it might be time for us to go home.”

  Connie drained the champagne in the bottom of her glass. She stood up, and then teetered. She made a grab for the edge of the table, and smiled at me self-consciously. “New heels,” she said. “I’m still getting used to them.”

  I nodded. “You’re drunk.”

  I took Connie by the elbow and guided her carefully out of the restaurant. The maître d’ took my money and bid us a pleasant evening. He gave me a smarmy smile and wrung his hands together.

  We stepped outside into the warmth of the evening, the frenetic sounds of the city swelling all around us. The sidewalks were crowded with pedestrians, the streets choked with cabs and cars, and the buzz of nightlife. I put my arm around Connie’s shoulder and steered her towards the parking lot. I got her into the passenger seat of my car and revved the engine.

  “You’re coming home with me,” I said, my voice flat and devoid of any emotio
n. “You can stay at my place tonight. There is no way I’m letting you drive home in your condition, so don’t even try to argue with me,” I insisted. “I won’t be responsible for you getting behind the wheel – and I don’t care what you say.”

  Connie said nothing.

  I pulled out of the parking lot and wedged the car into the snaking line of traffic. I glanced across at Connie. She was asleep.

  Chapter 22.

  We lurched through the front door. Connie stood swaying on her feet, like she was on the deck of a ship in a rising storm. I propped her up against the wall while I went through the house, flicking on lights. Connie started to sag forward from the waist and I caught her before she dropped to the floor. I wrapped my arm around her and steered her down the hallway to the main bedroom. She sat on the edge of the bed and then flopped backwards as though her body had lost all its strength. Her eyes were open, gazing at something unseen and out of focus on the ceiling. There was a grin on her lips, but at the same time she was frowning, as though the effort making herself smile took fierce concentration.

  I got onto the bed beside her and unbuttoned Connie’s blouse. The silk fell open and I reached with one hand beneath her to unfasten the clasp of her bra. Connie rolled her head and slapped limply at my hand. “Hey,” she muttered drunkenly. “Don’t touch the merchandise.”

  Her blouse and bra came off. Her body was slim, her breasts large and retaining their shape. There was a soft peppering of freckles across her chest, set against the pale smooth skin of her cleavage.

  I unbuckled the straps of her shoes and then wriggled her skirt and panties off. Connie lay completely naked, and under the soft golden glow of the bedroom lights she looked toned and fit and very feminine. Her body was mature, with a womanly weight to her breasts and hips, but I could still make out the rack of her ribs beneath the skin. There was a wispy tuft of fine hair at the base of her belly. Connie groaned and then buried her fingers in the bed sheets with dulled urgency.

  “Everything is moving,” she slurred the words. “Make it stop!”

  I got undressed and pulled the covers over us. Connie rolled onto her side and threw her arm across my chest as though I was an anchor she could cling to in order to stop the bed from swaying. I lay on my back with my hand thrust beneath my head, staring at a patch of moonlight on the wall.

  Connie began to softly snore.

  Chapter 23.

  I woke up with Connie’s cheek buried in the crook of my neck, her soft warm breath tickling the hairs on my chest. I was lying on my back, and she was lying on her side, curled up around me. She had one arm draped across my waist and one of her legs thrown over mine. My arm was numb.

  Connie stirred tentatively, then moaned. Her eyes fluttered open and she did that thing that ladies sometimes do when they wake up in a strange bed in a strange house in the arms of a strange man.

  She screamed.

  “What the fuck?”

  She sat bolt upright in the bed. The sheets fell down around her waist so that her breasts bounced. She stared at me, wide eyed with her mouth hanging open, slack in shock and horror.

  Then glanced down at herself and realized she was naked.

  Then she realized I was naked too.

  She clutched at the sheets and heaved them up to modestly cover herself. Her face was pale and bloodless. She glared at me with a ferocious look.

  “You… you… fucking…”

  I yawned. “Good morning.”

  Connie went ballistic. “Don’t you fucking good morning me, you bastard,” she hissed. She was trembling with rage. Beneath the clutch of the bed sheets I could see her breasts rising and falling with every angry breath.

  “Don’t tell me we…” she began and then cut herself off as though the possibility was just too horrible to utter the words. “We didn’t – did we?”

  I propped myself up onto one elbow and stared at her with a look of wide-eyed innocence. “Did what?”

  “You know damn well what!” Connie snapped.

  I shook my head. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what you mean.”

  There was a blaze of fire behind Connie’s eyes, yet her lips were drawn into an ice-cold grimace. “Sex,” she hissed. “Did you take advantage of me last night and use me for your sexual pleasure?”

  “Sex?” I said the word like I’d never heard it before in my life.

  She punched me – and it fucking hurt.

  “Don’t fuck with me!” she raged.

  “According to you, I already have.”

  Connie shook her head like this was some horrible nightmare. Her dark tousled hair swished across her shoulders. “Oh, god no!”

  I swung my legs off the bed and stood up. I was naked. I stared at Connie. “Relax,” I said gently. “You were drunk. I brought you home because I didn’t want you driving. I undressed you and put you into bed – and nothing happened.”

  Connie huffed in disbelief. She was still simmering with rage. “You undressed me – or tore my clothes off to have your way with me?”

  “I undressed you,” I said flatly. “And then carefully folded your clothes and put them at the foot of the bed. Not too many guys I know would rip off a woman’s clothes and then go to the trouble of folding them neatly for her.”

  Connie lost a little of her bluster. “How do I know you didn’t take advantage of me?”

  I smiled. “Stand up,” I said. “If you can walk – then we didn’t have sex.”

  Chapter 24.

  I burned eggs and then I burned toast before settling for a glass of bourbon. I switched on the television to catch the morning news. The announcer said, “And now to a developing story in Japan…” as Connie appeared in the hallway, dressed in the clothes she had worn the night before. Her hair looked more brown than black in the bright sunlight, and it was disheveled. She had washed her face of make-up and her face looked like a child’s, but her body language read otherwise. She strode across to the television. I had been sipping at my bourbon. The glass was almost empty.

  “Are you watching this?” she asked softly.

  I shook my head.

  Connie switched the TV off and stood to position herself in my line of sight. “I’d like to talk to you.”

  I nodded. “Go ahead.”

  But she didn’t. She didn’t say anything for a long time. Instead she went to the kitchen, saw the mess I had made, and decided that breakfast was a meal she could skip. She came back into the living room and sat beside me on the sofa whilst smoke swirled in lingering tendrils below the ceiling.

  Outside the morning had dawned warm and sunny. Through the windows I could see the haze of city smog turning the rim of the horizon soft and grey.

  (Or it might have been smoke from the eggs and toast).

  Connie sat pensive and thoughtful, her head bowed, kneading her fingers with some tension that lurked just below the surface. I glanced at her over the rim of my glass as I drank.

  “Do you think you have enough for your article?” I asked. My voice was brisk and bright, like I didn’t know Connie had things on her mind.

  She looked up at me, and it seemed to take a second for the question to register.

  “Um… yes,” she said finally. “I think I have all that I need.”

  “Last day here in L.A.,” I said like a warning. “So if there’s anything – anything at all that’s been left unanswered, now is the time to ask.”

  That seemed to trigger another wave of dark brooding. Connie lapsed into silence and I sat waiting patiently.

  “I’m sorry about this morning,” she said at last, her voice subdued. “I overreacted.”

  This wasn’t it. This wasn’t what was on her mind, but at least she was talking.

  I shrugged off her apology. “That’s okay,” I said. “I guess I can understand you feeling the way you felt and thinking what you thought, given what you have seen of me over the past few days.”

  She shook her head. “No,” she said, “I’ve seen enough of you
so that I should have known better. I shouldn’t have jumped to the conclusion that I did and… and I’m grateful to you – for bringing me back here and not letting me drive.” She blushed as she spoke.

  “How’s your head?”

  “Pounding.”

  “You drank a lot of champagne in a short amount of time.”

  She smiled wryly – an expression of remorse and regret. “I don’t know how you do it,” she said, shaking her head slowly and looking into my eyes. “I don’t know how you can drink so much alcohol and never feel hung over.” She waved her hand in the air, gesturing at the bourbon I was nursing. “Even now,” her voice rose a little. “You’re drinking alcohol for breakfast.”

  I leaned close to her as though to share a secret. Our shoulders brushed. “I have a technique,” I intimated. “The only way to drink as much as I do and not feel hung over is to stay drunk.”

  Connie looked at me with one of those pained expressions I had seen on her face so many times before. It was the face she wore whenever I was sarcastic.

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” she said dryly and then lapsed back into dark silence.

  I pushed myself to my feet and went around the kitchen cleaning up. I threw the frying pan, the eggs and the toast into the trash bin, then stared down thoughtfully for a moment at my empty glass.

  Was there a dishwasher somewhere?

  I stood holding the glass for a moment, and then re-filled it.

  Problem solved.

  Connie was watching me closely – we made eye contact.

  “Rick…” Connie said suddenly in the kind of voice that precedes an explosive question, “I have something to ask you, and it’s serious.”

  I braced myself. “I thought all your questions had been serious.”

  “They have,” she smiled thinly. “But this one is more serious… because it’s about us.”

  “Us?” I was genuinely surprised. “I didn’t know there was an ‘us’.”

  “I mean it’s not about your work. It’s a personal question.”

  Now I was intrigued. I went back into the living room and sat down in the big leather chair near the front door.