by Harley Rayne
I receive one in the form of a nod. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.” He steps forward to the edge of the bed and leans in, and my breath catches as I wonder if he’s going to join me. I imagine him shrugging off his jacket and crawling between my legs, pushing them apart with his own. I picture his weight on me as he lays over me, and the scratch of his stubble along my neck when he kisses me. He reaches out, and I am helplessly caught and ruthlessly desperate for him.
But he takes the notepad and the pen and rises again, giving them a hapless toss behind him. The scene reverts; Rob’s eyes take in the image of me without seeing the girl herself, and I’m caught wanting more again.
I clear my throat as though I can banish all torrid thoughts from my mind. “Brett’s back on set.”
“Mmhm.” But Rob’s not listening. Not really. He’s reading my form, and he raises a hand, motioning with it. “Part your legs a little. Knees up a bit, and part your legs.”
I am breathless again. He has an intoxicating presence, and I’ve felt it for as long as I’ve been in the same room with him. I’ve watched dozens of interviews and an hour long Q&A from Sundance, and now, I’m his framed muse. My stomach clenches in wanting, and I can’t tell if it’s for food or for him.
He says, “Good. Good, kid… like that,” and I’m delirious. Rob’s head tilts as he considers my position, then his lips press together in something of a smile. “That is so fucking sexy. Exactly what I want.”
My mouth goes dry as he offers me a hand to help me scoot out of bed. I know he’s talking about the image as a whole. He’s seeing the final product in his mind. He’s positioning his actress for the shot, not me for his devious purposes, but I can’t help the fact that I’m trembling when my palm slips into his.
He notices. Of course he notices. He’s successful because he sees everything. He sees every flicker in everyone’s eyes. The placement of every prop. He sees nerves and victories and frustration, and he levies them, or smoothes them over. But what he can’t see now is my motivation. “Hey, listen, I’m sorry if I freaked you out, kid. I didn’t mean to be inappropriate.”
I want to scream. No! That’s not why I’m shaking! Just take me. Just throw me down and take me. Instead, I manage, “No, it wasn’t… anything. I’m cold. Sorry. It’s like… thirteen degrees in here or something…”
Rob seems to accept the answer, and he bends to pick up my notepad and pen, handing them back to me. Our fingers brush as I take them. “Don’t worry about it.” He extends an arm towards the door as if to say after you, and I start out, digging my tail between my legs. I pass him, and he adds, “If you’re going for a coffee run, I’d love a double shot.”
Chapter Four: Brett
It’s in my contract. I’m not allowed to film another porn scene until the indie film is over. That doesn’t sit well with Lori anymore. She’s been on the phone all day fielding questions from directors, and now she’s over it. I’m across from her in her office, and her nostrils are flared.
“Kinked Up is going to go under because of your attempt at being Brad Pitt.”
I’m relaxed in my chair and I sink lower, my fingers lacing, hands resting on my stomach. “Brad Pitt would fucking kill to be me.”
If her look could kill me, I’d be struck down in a second. “Insert whoever you want in the analogy, Brett. This isn’t a joke. This is my livelihood. I pay my rent and feed my dogs with the booking fees you bring in.” She’s worried about losing me. I get it. I’m the guy women get off to. Female friendly, they call me, even when I’m rough enough to leave bruised thighs.
“You’ve got me for three more years.” I mention this, hoping she’ll get off the topic for a little while. I doubt it. Lori already knows that I’m doing everything in my power to break my contract without incurring one hell of a lawsuit for the breach. “I’m allowed a vacation every now and then. Rob’s got this, alright? I’ll be marketable to new audience. Or something.”
The truth is, I don’t care. Maybe that’s irresponsible of me to say, but I’m not doing this for my marketability. I’m doing this to escape. I’m doing this because I woke up one morning and realized that I was thirty-four years old and the object of fantasy, not the object of someone’s affection.
And all the women who’d want to fuck me weren’t exactly the kind of women I’d want to have children with in the first place.
I’m getting impatient now, and the sigh I heave makes it obvious. Lori sets her jaw at the noise. “Are you a five-year-old now?”
“No,” I say as I rise. “I’m late.”
Lori looks floored as she taps her phone, the clock lighting up over the wallpaper of a pug in a tutu. “You’ve got half an hour to get there.”
“Yeah, well.” I’m already halfway out the door, and I close it behind me as I finish. “If I’m not early…”
I arrive at the house with ten minutes to spare. I have some leftover tuna and squash in a Tupperware which I carry with me to the makeup tent. I’m settling into a chair, a hair assistant buzzing around me, when I see the girl in the glasses -- Kylie -- scuttle after Rob.
She’s a totally different girl than I saw the other day, the one who bluntly pointed out my liaison and cattle-prodded me to set. I know the look she has; she’s got it bad. I watch her as I stab a piece of tuna with a plastic fork, but I just push it around the Tupperware. I’m intrigued, amused, and I can’t look away.
Rob is oblivious to it all, but he’s pretty much oblivious to everything around him except the mirror. He’s the stereotype of every indie film director: he’s got his head up his own ass, and thinks he’s making the next Ben Hur. The movie he’s making now stars a porn star, and even I think some of the dialogue sucks. It’s two people in a house, talking about relationship problems, and occasionally fucking. It’s pretentious, but he thinks it’s high art. I’m not surprised he doesn’t notice the fly buzzing around his head, willing to drop to her knees.
Kylie is precocious. My eyes don’t leave her as she flips open a notebook she’s carrying and shows it to Rob. He glances at it, but dismisses her to turn his attention to the director of photography.
Kylie, I can already tell, is too good for this place.
She obviously has the tenacity to be on her own film set. Given that she navigates the crew so well, chances are she has the intel to do it, too. I have her sized up within moments, but as soon as I get comfortable, she surprises me.
Rob abandons her completely just before I’m informed that I’m done in the chair, and I’m on my feet immediately, drawn across the lawn to her. With Rob gone, she seems to settle into herself again and sees me coming. She waits, but I can tell she’s already thinking of a way out.
It’s cute.
“You need something?” she asks, and her eyebrows are lifted expectantly. It’s her job to run errands for anyone who asks, so she’s programmed to offer. I want to tell her to stop being everyone’s bitch, but it’s kind of her job description.
“I’m fine.” I glance sideways, squinting towards Rob’s back. “He’s looking dreamy today, don’t you think?”
Kylie’s face is red immediately, and she’s on the defensive. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.” We both know that she does, but she’s trying to stay professional. I can respect that.
“You want tuna?” I hold out the Tupperware towards her in offering, and her expression turns to one of disgust. I somehow stifle my laugh. “No, I get it.” I lean in, lowering my voice. “You hate me.”
I see relief pass over her features, like it was the elephant in the room and I finally shot it between the eyes.
“I don’t get why you’re here. No.”
“Have you seen any of my work?”
Kylie seems flabbergasted. “Your… porn? What? No. Fucking… disgusting and degrading. No.”
I’m not hurt. I’ve heard much worse from much less interesting people. In fact, I’m almost amused. “It’s just sex,” I tell her casua
lly. “And it’s just porn. There’s nothing wrong with watching it.”
“It’s not my thing.” She spits the words like they taste bad in her mouth, and I realize she’s already made up her mind about me.
“I’m here,” I start, going back to her prior statement, “to change things for myself. How old are you? Twenty-four? Twenty-five?”
“Twenty-three.”
“Right. I’m thirty-four. Look at you. Look at everything you’re doing right now. I was younger than you are now when I got into porn, and I’ve been doing the same thing ever since.”
That seems to make things worse for her because she snaps, “I get coffee for a living.”
“Yeah,” I say, my eyes darting around the set. “But you can balance eighteen cups at a time somehow, and remember what goes where. Badass.”
Kylie cracks a small smile at that, even though she tries not to let it out. I see the expression from my periphery.
But just as soon as I’ve gotten through to her, Rob turns and calls out for her. “Hey, kid! Can you come here for a minute?” and it’s like I never got through her exterior in the first place. Everything in her expression changes and she’s like a puppy at his heels. She at least has the decency to shoot me an apologetic glance before she’s off.
I finally take a bite of the food I’ve been macerating with my fork, but it tastes bland. I’m watching Kylie as I mentally rehearse my lines for the upcoming scene: I want more in this life. More than this room. More than hope and excuses and more than my bullshit principles. I want you.
Chapter Five: Kylie
I’m home. Thank God.
It’s been a long day, and I’ve had Brett Buckhurst in my head the entire time. I hate that he approached me, and I hate myself even more for giving in and letting him talk to me. I gave into the conversation. I let him charm me. And I let him make me smile.
I think that’s the part that really pisses me off about this entire thing. The last thing I want is to be quantitative for actors. If I start directing my own films (when, I remind myself), I’m not going to give into vapid declarations and charms from the talent. I’m going to control them, not the other way around.
And yet Brett played me like he probably plays every woman in his life. He’s the expert, and now, I’m no better than Karen. Why don’t you give him a blowjob while you’re at it, Kylie? Jesus Christ.
I’m berating myself as I drop my bag in the foyer, toss my glasses on the table there, and shuffle into my studio apartment. It’s small, a whopping 525-square feet, but it’s all I really need. I’ve got a kitchen, a bathroom to the side of it, and a room with an accordion-style wooden divider to separate my bed from the couch.
I shrug my clothes off as I go directly to the bathroom, leaving them in a puddle trail. I turn on the shower, close the door to keep in the steam, and pause.
I look in the full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door, tilting my head, studying myself. As I push Brett Buckhurst from my mind, I wonder what it was that made Rob say I was fucking sexy. I know, logically, he wasn’t talking about me, but even if it was an innocent statement, he was taking in my aesthetic. I have to have something he likes.
I run my hands over my breasts. They aren’t impressively large, but they’re enough to fill my hands, and my nipples harden as my thumbs rake over them. I imagine Rob coming up behind me, pressing his body flush against mine. I close my eyes so I can see it more clearly, and it’s like he’s there with me.
I’m naked, but he’s still wearing his weathered jeans. I can feel every muscle, and he’s hard. The bulge of his cock is pressed against my ass. He lowers his head to kiss my bare shoulder and takes some of the skin into his mouth.
His hand moves lower, palm flat against my belly (my hand moves in emulation), until he reaches the soft hair at my pussy. In my ear he demands, Tell me you want it. I whisper easily, “I want it.”
He sucks the skin of my neck and I’m trembling suddenly. Just when I think I’ll go mad, his finger slips into my passion-slick folds, tracing a circle against my clit.
My legs are turning into jelly, and I’m jerking into my own hand as steam fills up the bathroom, making me sweat. I put a hand behind me to steady myself on the bathroom sink, but it’s cold and only serves to remind me that it’s just a fantasy. Rob isn’t there. My head is swimming and I’m unsatisfied as I collect myself enough to climb into the shower and wash off the day.
I’m rinsing shampoo out of my hair, my entire body throbbing with unsatisfied need, when I hear Brett’s words, as though he was in the shower with me. It’s just porn. There’s nothing wrong with watching it.
I consider this for a few moments as everything seems to slow down.
Women watch porn. Of course they do. It’s a multibillion-dollar industry, and it can’t be financed by men alone. Besides, there are movies out there catered to women, aren’t there? It’s just another form of film. I know exactly what this is building up to as I make excuses in advance.
Have you seen any of my work?
I’ve never watched porn before. It’s always seemed so dirty and lewd, with women who faked it and, at their core, seemed to have major daddy issues. It seems like the stark opposite of everything that I stand for, even if I am a progressive woman. But then again…
Isn’t film in itself faking it? We’re showing romance and triumphs and wars and peace, and it’s all put on display by actors and actresses who step in and pretend to be people they aren’t.
It can’t hurt, I decide, as I step out of the shower and wrap a towel around my chest. My hair is dripping wet, but I know I’ll lose steam and desire, so I make my way to my couch and open my laptop from its place on the coffee table.
I don’t even know where to start.
I’m half-tempted to text Brett and ask. I’ve got his number from the call sheets, and I think about what I would even send. You win, where do I watch? Or maybe just, Send me a file. But that would admit to my fallibility and weakness.
Instead, I just start with a search engine, and his name. Brett Buckhurst.
His website is the first link available, with further clickable options below.
POV. Amateur. Multiples. Masturbation.
I’m trying to calm my nerves at the whole thing as I scroll down the search engine results. His Wikipedia page is below that, along with a Twitter fan page. There are dozens of articles with titles like “Porn’s Golden Boy,” and “The Porn Star Next Door.” Porn star next door my ass.
Below that, finally, are links to what I imagine are free hosting sites. KINKED UP, BRETT BUCKHURST SOLO.
That’s the one I click.
It takes me to a website that’s littered with ads for Kinked Up, his representation company, I imagine. There are mere clips of videos, none more than a few minutes long, but there are dozens of them filling up the whole page. I feel like I’m jumping down the rabbit hole as I select one, a thumbnail of Brett in close-up, eyes poised directly at the camera.
It starts innocently enough, and for that, I’m surprised. It’s licentious, sure, but there’s something almost boyish about it. It’s like I’m watching something I’m not supposed to. His eyes are on the camera, his lips parted. His hair is down, and his beard is full. His face is already flushed red (I realize I’m coming into this in the middle of the act), but his features look sharper than ever and yet smooth, like he’s stone-cut. Were the lines of his face less delicately chiseled, he might look like a lumberjack. But everything about him is youthful (the camera loves him), and he more closely resembles a Viking or a Greek god.
For the first time, I can see the attraction.
He’s panting, but it isn’t some dog-needing-water thing. They’re long breaths, drawn out, heaving. He is incredibly in control, and the sound shoots straight between my thighs.
The camera pulls back, and for the first time, I catch a glimpse of his body. It’s perfect. His muscles are so defined, I could probably
fit coins between them, and there’s such inherent strength there that I’m shocked. The muscles of his arm are flexing and releasing, labored motions, and it’s obvious why seconds later.
Brett Buckhurst is entirely on display now, and though I try to offer the man some respect and look away from his cock while keeping my eyes on his, it’s hard not to look. I’m not an expert on dick size. I’m no prude, but I’ve only had a few partners through the years. Their cocks were fine, but honestly, his is both enthralling and intimidating.
I’m caught by the thickness first. I hear myself gasp before I know what’s happened, and I’m suddenly leaning forward on the couch, on the edge of my seat. He’s slumped in his chair, and the length reaches his navel. His balls are shaved, but he has an impressive mess of hair leading down his lower abs, scattered at the base of his swollen shaft. I swallow hard and look up again at his eyes, which sear into the camera.
He’s pumping himself slowly, methodically. He’s taking his time, even though he’s rock hard and has clearly been doing this for a while. I’m amazed, most of the guys I’ve been with go straight for the pounding, having one speed: breakneck. But not Brett. He has so much control over himself, over his body, that I marvel when he moans.
“Oh, fuck…” The whisper is from me, and I realize my lips are parted, as are my legs. I’m shaking.
Brett wets his lower lip, and the motion is so sensual that I gasp. His voice is low and pure gravel when he speaks. “You like my cock, baby?” I almost answer him. Brett lets out a pleasured, “Mmm…” and I’m done for. “Go ahead, baby,” he says, urging. “Say it. Say you like my cock.”
I’m amazed how well he knows his audience, and I’m even more amazed at how I’m along for the ride instantly, murmuring, “I like it…” It’s like he knows I’ve answered because he lets out a groan. I can feel my pussy throbbing at the sight and sound.