Insatiable: Porn — a Love Story (11 page)

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.

“No way. I just remember making nachos . . . then we went to bed!” Hank would smile while he said this, knowing in the back of his mind what we had done.

“Not only did you leave open cans of beans everywhere, Akira, there are four spoons in the dishwasher covered in peanut butter.”

Guilty. Around that time, I was carrying a jar of peanut butter with me everywhere I went. It was before my metabolism turned on me, when I could do things like order a whole pizza just for myself without thinking about how it would affect my love handles. If only I had known then what the future had in store for me; I would have spent all my time eating high-carb foods, instead of doing drugs and having sex.

I don’t recall exactly when the three of us became a couple, or how it was initiated. It was in my OxyContin phase, so the timeline is a bit blurred. It’s hard to make out whether we had all fucked first, or if I fucked Hank alone first, or if they had started calling me their girlfriend before anyone had sex. The latter sounds about accurate; I believe they had started calling me their “girlfriend” as a joke, and reality just gradually started to imitate that.

Before I paint a picture of some freaky, year-long sexual experiment, I should mention that Hank and Laura weren’t swingers. I try not to judge, but it would be a lie to say swingers aren’t weird fucking people. They have an air of desperateness to them that I can’t quite get with. The one time I went to a swingers party was by accident; my date had told me we were going to a party, and I was there for over an hour before I realized exactly what kind of party it was. “Are you okay?” he kept asking me, and I had no idea why—until, that is, some vaguely recognizable child actor of the eighties and his wife came swimming up to me, rolling on Ecstasy and talking about the girl they fucked last night.

Sex was probably about the third-biggest factor in the relationship of Hank, Laura, and myself. Looking back, the dynamic was certainly strange. I was in love with both of them. We didn’t necessarily fuck every night. Sometimes I would sleep in bed with them; sometimes I would sleep alone. If one was out of town, I’d sleep in bed with the other. There were mornings I’d be in bed with Hank, and the sixteen-year-old daughter, Brynn, would come in and join us for a morning chat in the bedroom. It was more normal than it sounds.

Often at night, I’d sneak into the master bedroom for some fun, after the kids went to sleep. We’d fuck like animals, and then sit around and talk for hours. Hank and I would always be pilled up by then, but Laura hardly partied. Hank would take out his guitar and play his favorite Elvis song as Laura and I lay cuddling.

I became extremely close with Brynn. During the day, Hank would go to work. Sometimes I had to go with him, but for the majority of the week I was free during the day. Laura always had house stuff to do; she was endlessly busy. It was during that time I realized no job is busier than that of a mom. There’s always something to be done, and a never-ending list of errands, and when you get home, you’re still working. It should be a paying gig.

“Akira! Come to the main house!” Brynn would yell into the guesthouse. I’d come downstairs, outside, we’d walk across the pool, and into the main house. Bri wasn’t allowed to have a boyfriend yet, but we’d talk about the boys she liked. She would get home from school right around the time I woke up, and we’d then go to the mall, watch TV, do each other’s makeup, swim in the pool . . . regular teenager stuff. I was playing a sixteen-year-old by day, sisterwife by night.

Hank always boasted that he had never fought with Laura, and she supported this statement. In the time I spent with them, I never saw them get upset with each other. It wasn’t like they bottled their feelings up, or internalized any anger—they simply didn’t disagree on much, and if they did, they were genuinely okay with agreeing to disagree. I still haven’t figured out if it’s the healthiest or unhealthiest thing I’ve ever seen.

“I have a big announcement,” Hank slurred to us one night after we had attended a birthday party. Already a few pills in, we were all feeling good—even Laura, since her mom was staying the night with the baby. “Meet in the hot tub in ten minutes.”

Laura and I giggled as we watched Hank come in and out of the kitchen, collecting candles and such from all around the house for our “meeting.”

Once in the hot tub, Laura and I pawed at each other’s bodies.

“Sit still for one second, guys, so I can make my announcement.”

“There’s actually an announcement?” I laughed. I thought he was just saying that to get us all in the hot tub.

“The floor is all yours,” Laura said, and winked at me as she sat back into another nook in the tub.

With his eyes closed and his hands up like an orchestra conductor, he declared, “Here’s my announcement. I love you guys.”

Pause.

“That’s it?” Laura burst out laughing.

Without trying to hide his disappointment, Hank came to sit between us, and put his arms around us. “I mean it, you guys. I’m not joking. I swear, I love you both.”

He was nearing tears. The pills do that sometimes, escalate emotions. And it’s contagious. It was spreading to me, too, fast.

“Wait, wait. I love you, too. Both of you. I’m so happy to be with you guys.” Now I started to cry. I was now officially a passenger on this emotional roller coaster. I started thinking about my life, and how I ended up here, in this strange ménage à trois. It wasn’t conventional, but it worked. I was happy. I felt close to them, and a
part
of something.

“I think my babysitter raped me when I was young,” I started confessing.

I had never said these words out loud before. “I have no real reason to think it, and no way to prove it.”

Laura swam over to the other side of me, and ran her fingers through my wet hair.

“I had a male babysitter when I was two or three. I slept in a toddler bed, and I remember we had this joke, where he’d crawl into my bed with me. I thought it was the funniest fucking thing, a grown-ass man in my toddler bed.”

Hank held my hand.

“I loved him. Then one day, he was just gone. I asked my parents where he went, and my mom just told me, ‘Just because we don’t like him anymore, it doesn’t mean you can’t like him.’ That’s a weird fucking answer, right? Even back then it felt cryptic and weird.”

Hank was crying with me. Laura was holding me.

“This sounds so fucking cliché and I hate it, but the worst part is—I’m pretty sure I fucking liked it! When I think of him, nothing but positive feelings come up. I don’t feel scared, or resentful; If anything, it makes me smile.”

I looked up through my tears at both of them. They were hanging on to me, tightly.

“No one has ever shown me love like this before.” It probably wasn’t the truth, but it felt like the right kind of moment to say something like this. “I’m so grateful to have you in my life.” That part was undoubtedly true.

We sat there in the hot tub, the three of us crying, for what seemed in OxyContin-time like hours. I felt so emotionally charged, saying these words I had never been able to say out loud before. Naked, crying, talking about my suspicion of a childhood rape that I had no valid reason to back it up with, I was in the most vulnerable state a person could be in.

Hank looked me in the eyes.

“We love you, Akira.”

Shit Pornstars Say

“Don’t cum in my eye.”

Whatever context it’s said in—whether it be a joke, threat, or gentle warning—this phrase is a curse. The moment these words are uttered, you’ve just guaranteed yourself sperm in your eyeball.

Sometimes it’s the male performer. He does it on purpose; he’s having a bad day, he woke up to his girlfriend yelling at him, he hits traffic on the way to the set, and finally, upon getting out of the car after an hour and a half, he finds out he is working with a girl he has no chemistry with. The girl gives him a list of a million things he cannot do to her, starting with “don’t touch my hair,” and ending with “don’t cum in my eye.” He struggles through the scene, needing to cut every few minutes to get his dick back up. Finally, when the director gives him the nod, signaling him to cum, he projects his rage into his pop shot, and bam. “Accidentally” cums right on her cornea.

More often, though, the male talent has little control of exactly where his pop goes. “Face” is a pretty general area, and the eyes are a big part of said area. It happens.

“Where are the baby wipes?”

What the baby wipe industry doesn’t know (or do they?) is that mothers of newborns are not the ones keeping them in business. It’s sluts. It’s whores. It’s pornstars. In porn, we use baby wipes for
everything
.

Pee. “Where are the baby wipes?” Dirty feet. “Where are the baby wipes?” Dusty furniture. “Where are the baby wipes?” It’s hot in here. “Where are the baby wipes?” (Apply cold baby wipe to nape of neck.)

Whenever I’m on a non-porno set, like say a music video, or an independent movie, I have to constantly remind myself not to ask for baby wipes. It’s like a huge neon sign with an arrow pointing down to me, saying in all caps, “SEX WORKER.”

If a girl has baby wipes in her house, but no baby—I’d say she will most likely be down to let you put it in her ass.

“I have to clean my ass.”

It seems like a big portion of my life is spent cleaning my ass.

“I can’t go out tonight, I have to clean my ass.” Or “Let me call you right back—I’m cleaning my ass.”

Of course, everyone has their own system, but I like to prep for my anal scene a day in advance. I wake up in the morning, work out, then start the process. The sooner in the day I can do it, the better.

The process is simple. I take an enema bag, fill it up with water, feed it into my ass through a tube, let it out, repeat.

I get paid almost a thousand dollars extra when a scene entails anal, as opposed to just vaginal. When I first started shooting anal scenes, it didn’t seem fair . . . a hole is a hole, and one isn’t worth much more than the other.

But as I sit here, refilling the enema bag over and over while browsing the Internet, I realize . . . They’re not paying me extra ’cause it’s my asshole. The extra grand is for the prep that goes into it.

“I have cancer.”

Beautiful, with the kind of face that comes by porn no more than once every few years, Raven joined Spiegler’s roster of girls a couple of years after myself. Seemingly normal, there was nothing offensive about her—a country girl, with two little kids and a steady boyfriend.

Less than a year after she signed with Spiegler, she announced she had cancer. It’s completely horrible, but my first instinct was:

“It’s a lie.”

I expressed my thoughts to Spiegler and Dana, and they agreed with me. Cancer was a common subject when it came to liars in porn, and the business was full of them. Someone ought to do a research on women in porn—we have an astounding amount of pathological liars being exposed every day. So six months later, when Raven started to post pictures online of her bald self wig-shopping, we all felt bad. I called Spiegler telling him not to tell anyone what I had said.

Months went by, and Raven got worse. People who had seen her said she had dropped a dramatic amount of weight, and her skin had gotten grayish. Her boyfriend tweeted the progress of her disease, stating Raven had gotten too sick to respond to her fans on the site. Eventually, she became too weak to walk and needed to be physically carried in and out of her wheelchair when leaving her home. Which was ironic, because after her boyfriend quit his job to take care of her two children, Raven made money by webcamming with fans, and escorting.