Insatiable: Porn — A Love Story

by Asa Akira

  Hi Mark! This is Asa Akira. I was just curious to see if you are currently adding to your roster of girls . . .

  My contract with GoldStar Modeling Agency ends on March 20th, in 12 days. After extensive research, and conversations w/various girls in the business, I’ve come to the conclusion you are the best.

  I’ve heard you are very picky about the girls you take on, and pretty much everyone I have spoken to tells me the same thing: “you need to do anal.”

  I’ll be honest with you, anal is not in my future. However, I just shot my first two interracial scenes for Jules Jordan, in my own movie called Invasian 4. The movies come out March 18th so after that, I plan on shooting more!

  Please let me know if you’re interested in representing me.

  Thanks : )

  Asa

  He loves showing this letter to everyone, mostly because I went through a breakup and started shooting anal scenes two weeks after I sent the email.

  Anal sex is a strange thing in porn. My first month in, I was under contract, shooting exclusively for a company called Vouyer Media. One of the main directors there, Van, took me to a Fourth of July barbecue at the house of the owner of another company. This was my first time meeting Spiegler, and he had brought some of the Spiegler Girls along with him.

  “I did anal for Jules Jordan last week, and Mandingo fucked my ass. I can’t believe it fit!” one of them humble-bragged.

  Not to be outdone, another girl exclaimed, “But have you ever done double anal? I can pretty much fit anything back there now.”

  “Donna put an entire double-ended dildo in my ass once for Jay’s Deep Anal Drilling.”

  What the hell are these girls bragging about? I thought. Having a big asshole is a good thing? I’d never end up like that.

  Alas, the curse. I had said it, even if silently, even if just to myself. That word. Never.

  I am totally like those other girls now. Toni hates it. “Just don’t get like that about your pussy,” he always reminds me. “I don’t want you to stretch it all out.”

  Another thing I vowed upon starting to shoot anal scenes is that I would never get messy. I had heard horror stories: girls not cleaning out enough, shitting on guys on set. Not me. I’d be a pro from the start; no one was going to call me that girl.

  Two years went by perfectly. I was known as a reliable anal performer; guys always told me fucking my ass was like fucking a pussy: a nice, warm hole, no mess. “I never get messy,” I’d say. And that was it. The curse.

  I was shooting a regular anal scene one day when I looked down at the cock entering my ass and saw a pool of red on the sheets right under the penetration. “Holy fuck! Cut, cut, cut! My ass is bleeding!” I yelled to everyone, no one in particular. There were five people on this small Gonzo set: me, the guy, the director, the photographer, and the production assistant, also known as the PA.

  “You okay?” My male talent for the day was Tommy. In typical male pornstar fashion, he was juiced up on both steroids and Viagra. The Viagra I could tell from the flush in his face; his chest acne and body scent gave away the ’roids. It’s a very specific smell—sour, and almost metallic.

  I touched my ass with my hand, and to my horror, my fingers came back up covered in red. “I must be torn somewhere, right?” I asked, again to everyone, and no one in particular.

  “Does it hurt, babe?” the director, Brian, asked me with his camera hanging on his shoulder.

  “It doesn’t . . . That’s so weird. Frankie, come look at it for me.” I called the PA over. The PA has possibly the worst job on set . . . which is to do all the crap no one else wants to do. Set up the lights, stand by with baby wipes, clean the cum off the furniture, and in this case, examine my asshole. I baby-wiped, bent over on the bed in doggy style, and put my ass in Frankie’s face as everyone looked on.

  “Anything?” I laid my cheek down on the sheets. What a pain in the ass this whole ordeal was, but oddly enough, not literally.

  “I don’t see anything; let me get the C-light.” Brought in for close-up shots of the penetration, C-light is rumored to stand for cunt-light, but in all the years I’ve been in porn, no one has been able to confirm this for sure.

  I spread my legs wider, put all my weight on my shoulders, and spread my asscheeks with both hands as my face smooshed deeper into the sheets. Frankie was bent over, one hand on his knee, the other holding the C-light; he squinted his eyes inches away from my asshole, which was gaping from being freshly fucked.

  “What’s it looking like?” Brian was getting restless. I could tell his mind was trying to gauge if he had time to go smoke a cigarette.

  “I still don’t see nothing.”

  “Fuck it, it doesn’t hurt, lemme go rinse my butt out and let’s keep going.” I wasn’t trying to waste anyone’s time, including my own. I ran to the bathroom, enemaed, and came back to the set as Brian was finishing his cigarette and Frankie was putting a new sheet on the bed. We continued shooting; everything was fine. We switched from spoon into reverse cowgirl, where I was riding Tommy, but with my back toward him and my face toward the camera.

  “Cut, it’s bleeding again,” Brian sighed as he put the camera down. “You sure you’re okay? Let me see.” I slid off Tommy, apologizing for the pool of red I left on and around his cock. I lay on my back and kicked my legs up and apart, ob-gyn style. Brian spread my asscheeks for me this time. “That’s weird. I don’t see anything. What’s going on here?”

  “Do you think I’m bleeding internally?” I started to enter panic mode. My ass had torn before, and it didn’t bleed like this. What if my colon was bleeding? Or my intestines? Does that even happen? Where was my phone to WebMD the symptoms of bleeding internal organs during anal sex? I stood up and ran to the bathroom. Using my hands to hoist myself up onto the sink, I didn’t give a fuck that I knocked over the expensive soap dispenser. I bent down in front of the mirror and looked at the reflection of my asshole from between my legs.

  Nothing.

  It was sparkling clean. I took a moment to appreciate my asshole. I took pride in it—some girls had extra skin hanging around; some you took one look at and knew immediately she was a seasoned anal pro. I exhaled and let my ass gape wider, in hopes to see inside. It looked pink and healthy, not bloody.

  From the living room, Brian yelled to me. “You okay? What did you eat last night?”

  What the fuck did he care what I ate last night, at a time like this. This could be cancer. What exactly were the symptoms of cancer, anyway? Had I caught an STD in my ass? Would I ever shoot porn again?

  Just then I remembered my dinner. Fuck me fucking sideways. I had a fucking beet salad.

  For a second, I wished my insides were actually bleeding. It would be less embarrassing. I took a moment on the sink, and stalled going out to tell everyone it was a false alarm, I’m fine, just ate beets last night. I’m supposed to be a fucking anal superstar. What an amateur move, not to mention disgusting; a man should never be able to tell what I ate last night from fucking my ass.

  Slowly, I walked out. “So . . . I ate a beet salad last night. I’m sorry. I’ll pay for everyone’s kill fees, and reshoot this whenever you want for free.” I bit my lip and waited for someone to tell me not to worry about it, it happens to the best of us.

  Silence.

  Then everyone burst out laughing. Like bent over, holding their stomachs, telling me to stop it, get out of here, no way, laughing.

  I was mortified.

  As Mia and I sat in silence while my thoughts continued to drift, the housewives on TV were arguing. One screamed “Get your finger out of my face!” as another declared “This isn’t the place!”

  It was always the same thing with these crazy bitches.

  I loved it.

  I had no siblings. I attended six different schools as a child. Possibly due to this, I never had many girlfriends. I would make one here and there, but having that core group of girlfriends, that clique, was something that never happened f
or me. When it comes down to it, I don’t know if I would even want one; in all honesty, females, in groups, intimidate me. Nothing quiets me faster than a group of female strangers. All of a sudden I feel unsure, unworthy, insecure. Is my outfit good enough? Am I too slutty to be likable? Do I know the right people?

  The women on this show wore thousand-dollar dresses to lunch, made judgments toward everyone, and name-dropped like their social lives depended on it. It was an elite female world, rich but classless, friendly but catty, that I would never be a part of. I was addicted to watching it.

  “You know what’s weird, too?” Mia broke the dead air.

  “Hm.”

  “All Arabs smell the same. I didn’t notice until I started messing with James. His scent reminds me of my dad’s side of the family.”

  “Asians smell like garlic!” I jumped in excitedly. “And blacks smell the strongest!”

  “Totally. Mexicans have a scent, too.” Mia was part Mexican herself. “It’s like, the spices they eat or something. Same with Indians.”

  “So weird, I never thought anyone else noticed,” I said for probably the millionth time since I met Mia. She says we were sisters in a past life. I still haven’t decided if I believe in that stuff, but I go with it.

  “Twinssss,” we chimed together in our period underwear.

  I didn’t realize I had such a strong sense of smell until I entered the porn business. In fact, for a long time, I had thought just the opposite; for sure, all those years of snorting Special K in highschool did some type of irreversible damage. While all my friends wisely switched nostrils every other line, I insisted it’s better to fuck up one side of my nose completely, than to fuck up both sides mildly. It’s been almost ten years since I’ve seen ketamine in any form, and even now, I wake up every morning with my left nostril stuffed up, needing to be blown. If the air is too dry, my nose will bleed, only on that side. I’ve convinced myself it’s worth the fun I had.

  I thought about the way Toni smells. Sometimes, when he’s sleeping, I’ll quietly go under the covers and just smell his dick. It’s gross, I know; every time I do it, I think of the horror I’d face if he were to wake up. For a second, I’ll try to make myself feel like I really did get caught. “Good morning, I’m just smelling your dick.” How would I explain that? In reality I’d probably lie and tell him I saw a spider on his balls, or maybe I’d even go as far as to say I think I saw a lump.

  The scent is specific to him, and when I inhale it, there’s something comforting about it. It’s not just his dick, although that’s where it’s the strongest—it’s his whole being. There’s nothing I love more than when we have a day off together, and he doesn’t wear any deodorant. I just bury myself in his armpit and breathe.

  As I sat there licking the peanut butter, I wondered if Toni could smell me. When I was sixteen, I dated a white boy who told me Asian girls smell different.

  “I can only describe it as smelling like the color gray,” he explained.

  At the time, I didn’t know what he was talking about; I just smiled and pretended to know what he was saying, which is how I spent most of my teen years around boys anyway. Now, over ten years and hundreds of girls later, I’m shocked at how observant he was at that young age. Or maybe he just fucked a lot of Asian chicks. I came to realize gray was the perfect way to describe it.

  I grew up hardly knowing I was Asian. What I mean is, I was raised, for the most part, in the United States, and was never really that aware that my friends were of all different ethnicities and colors. In New York City, everyone is a minority. Downtown Manhattan is just a clusterfuck of every ethnicity; you have Chinatown, Little Italy, but also the West Village, and the projects. You go to the Upper West Side, everyone aside from Jews are a minority. Yet you go crosstown to the Upper East Side and it’s nothing but WASPs. Go a little farther uptown from there and it’s all Puerto Rican, Dominican, and black. Sprinkle Pakistanis, Asians, and Africans throughout and that’s New York.

  When I first started porn, I resented getting cast as the token Asian. Starring in Oriental Babysitters 13: Anal Edition was not what I had in mind when envisioning my career. One out of every three shoots was an “Asian” scene. I can’t even tell you how many times I’ve covered my naked body in sushi, or played the role of a mail-order bride. “Masseuse” is something I can practically list on my résumé. Over time, I’ve come to embrace it. It’s gotten me to where I am today, and it pretty much guarantees me work until the day I quit, since there is always a shortage of Asian girls in the business.

  Mia broke my train of thought again. “I don’t even know why I’m into him. He’s forty-one. That’s five years younger than my mom.”

  “Well, your mom is young . . .” I thought of how my own mother was almost sixty. I needed to have kids, soon. I didn’t want to be an old mom.

  “True. He’s such a loser, though. What the fuck am I gonna do with that? It made me so mean to him last night. He’s probably so confused.”

  “Eh, something about being mean makes the insecure guys stay more. It makes me stay, and I’m pretty much positive it says something about me that I’m not aware of.”

  “I was so bossy last night.”

  “Fuck, it’s over. Once you’re mean and they stay, it’s game over! I can’t respect that. And I’ll just be mean until you leave.”

  “I think that’s why I liked Colin so much.” Colin was Mia’s ex who turned out to be gay. Unknowingly dating a gay guy, another thing we had in common. “It kept me on my . . .”

  “Best behavior!” we yelled at the same time.

  Bitches are crazy, for sure, we both thought simultaneously.

  Haiku

  Squirted on the floor.

  Now I have to clean it up

  On my knees again.

  9

  Florida

  Back then, before porn, I went by the name Akira. It was my stripping name, so when I was first asked to promote my club on the radio show, that was the name I used. By the time I was living in Florida and on the show as a regular, it was too late to request that people start using my real name. It’s like Puff Daddy changing his name. I don’t care what you say; I’m never calling you Diddy.

  Having two names became my living nightmare. Every time I thought I got close to someone, there would be that moment they called me Akira—and I’d be snapped back to reality. This person doesn’t even know my name, I’d overdramatically think. The worst was when my two worlds collided—half the people in the room would call me by one name, while the other half would call me another. I never quite knew how to introduce myself, so I just left it up to others to do it for me, undoubtedly making me seem cold. Not that there aren’t perks to having a stage name. Your real name stays safe, untouched, un-google-able. It makes it easy to compartmentalize that era of your life, as well; for a year, I lived as another person. It’s as if I didn’t need to assume responsibility for any of my actions.

  “Oh, that? That wasn’t me. That was Akira. I would never get that wasted.”

  Without question, Florida is the trashiest state in North America. You hear a scandalous story about a woman and her daughter getting into porn together, and you just know it’s happening in Florida. A man with a mullet shoots an innocent bystander because he can’t take a doggy bag home at an all-you-can-eat buffet—you don’t even have to ask! It’s bound to be a story from Florida. I’ll often join in on conversations mocking Floridians and their white trash ways, and forget I myself spent an entire year out of my life living there.

  “It’s awful,” I’ll remark. “I just stop listening after ‘I’m from Florida.’”

  It’s true. Being from New York, where even being born in Staten Island is almost too embarrassing to confess, admitting I resided in Tampa is not something that comes easily to me. The radio show had discovered me at the “gentleman’s lounge” I was working at in the city, and moved me down to the Sunshine State to start a solo-girl website endorsed by the show. In addit
ion, I went on the air two or three times a week as the “Show Whore.” I should specify that the term whore wasn’t used literally. It was my first job in media, and immediately I knew I loved it.

  Running my website was Hank. Hank was a millionaire. Of course, he wasn’t the first one I had met, but he was the first one in Florida that I knew. Being a millionaire in Florida is much different than being a regular one; it’s much flashier, much trashier. Very new money. Hank had started a porn website, back when porn sites had just started to dominate the Internet. The site is still running to this day, but it’s way past its heyday; by the time I met him, he owned several stripclubs and had invested in random businesses, the radio show being one. By first impression, you wouldn’t think Hank was a successful businessman. He had the vibe of an entertainer, always “on.” His favorite joke was to take the skin of his balls out through the fly of his pants, walk around pulling on it, innocently offering around, “Gum? Does anyone want some gum?”

  For the year I was in Florida, I lived in the guest house of Hank’s mansion, in which he resided with his wife and two kids, ages sixteen and two. Forties, blue eyes, balding, what Hank lacked in conventional good looks, he made up for with charm and charisma. In his own goofy way, Hank could be considered cute; but Laura was the real beauty in the relationship. In her thirties, she was classically beautiful. Not in the cheap, offensive way so common to the state. Her Native American genes shone through, and the only thing fake about her were her boobs; everything else, including her personality, was very real. To this day, she is probably the most grounded person I’ve met.

  Complete with a movie theater, saltwater pool, and library, their place was extravagant in that faux-marble paint, Florida way. In the main entrance was an oversize Elvis mannequin. Elvis was Hank’s idol; a popular nighttime activity in the mansion was to take Ambien and purchase Elvis memorabilia on eBay. Neither I nor Hank would remember in the morning, and we’d laugh listening to Laura inform us we had spent thirty thousand dollars on a shirt once worn by the King of Rock himself.