Insatiable: Porn — a Love Story (8 page)

This particular purse was nothing special. Wallet, tampons, gum. No coins at the bottom; she had changed her purse just for this occasion. In her wallet were the basics: IDs, credit cards, cash.

And receipts. Tons of them.

I started to backpedal. This was a woman who paid her own taxes. I assumed she was freelance. Probably, she had the mentality of “every penny counts.” I knew because my dad is the receipt Nazi. Anytime he took a cab, ate at a restaurant, purchased an electronic item, he double-, triple-checked he had stored away the receipt.

“I think I saw a camera outside. What if she reports it missing and they see us on the video?” I wasn’t about to admit I had gone soft. To my surprise, Jenna readily agreed. Maybe she was having second thoughts as well. Stealing from an actual human being was uncharted territory. We returned upstairs, purse in hand, and placed it back down on the floor next to my seat. Our food arrived shortly, we ate, paid for our meal, left a tip, and headed back to Jenna’s.

After entering highschool, the trio slowly broke up. I met an older boy, Kevin, and spent most of my time with him and his pothead friends. My hobbies, although they still included shoplifting, gravitated more toward drug-related activities. Georgia continued being popular at UNIS, and Jenna eventually moved out to the West Coast with her parents. Sometimes I went shoplifting alone, sometimes with my best friend Dee. A few times I took Kevin on a stealing spree and got him anything he wanted. I never felt bad; I wasn’t stealing from anyone personally, and besides, I was living by the phrase “Fuck the Man” at the time.

At age eighteen, I got caught for the first and only time. I should have known; the day was gloomy and raining, exactly the kind of weather right before bad things happen in movies. It was November, and I was stealing a bottle of perfume for Dee’s birthday present. As I was about to walk out of the store, an employee called out to me.

“Excuse me, miss, please follow me.”

My heart started to race. I began to feel dizzy. I followed the man to the back of the store, where they showed me a video of me putting the perfume in my purse. To this day, it makes me cringe in shame when recalling the image of myself crouched over, looking around to make sure no one was watching.

The police took me to the station, and after a few grueling hours, they drove me to Central Bookings, where I would spend the night. I was in disbelief. I had never been caught, and I always thought that if I had, it wouldn’t come this far. Central Bookings was for crimes like selling drugs and tagging buildings, certainly not for little girls like me.

To get to the women’s side of bookings, after taking your shoelaces, keys, and oddly enough, tampons, the guards walk you past a few rows of cells on the men’s side. There were around fifteen men to a cell, some of them sitting in the back, others right up against the bars, yelling for things like water and food, or complaining about the temperature. They weren’t talking to each other; they weren’t really even talking to the guards. No one was paying attention to them; they were just yelling out into the atmosphere. As we walked past, I couldn’t help but feel like we were walking through a zoo. It smelled disgusting, it was loud, and the air was chilly but thick. I didn’t belong here.

The women’s side was completely different. I was put in a cell with one other woman. There was a TV on the other side of the bars, easily visible from any angle within the cell. The toilet had a door; it was a door with no top or bottom, as if someone had cut off the two ends and just left the middle part. It was a door nonetheless. There was a mattress on the floor, and benches all around. It was cold, but it was still; there was nothing of the cold draft I felt on the men’s side.

I sat down on a bench in the opposite corner from the other woman. She was black, and had braided red extensions in her hair. I noticed a nervous twitch, where occasionally when she blinked her eyes, she would blink them harder than was necessary.

After a few hours of silently watching a marathon of
The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air
, we were served our first meal: turkey sandwiches. I unwrapped the sandwich and put the packet of mayo to the side.

“You gonna use that mayo?” my co-inmate asked me. It was the first thing either one of us had said to the other.

“No, here.” I walked up to her and handed her the mayo.
I thought black people were notorious for hating mayo
, I thought. My black friend Travis was always saying, “White people like mayo. Brothers don’t fuck with that shit.”

As if she were reading my mind, the next thing out of her mouth was “I must be the only black bitch who eat mayo. Whachu in here for?”

“Shoplifting,” I answered as I sat on the bench next to her. “You?”

“Prostitution. My boyfriend about to be real fuckin’ mad, too. I was drivin’ his car tonight.”

I didn’t know how to reply. I had never met a hooker in real life. I had never even met a stripper.

“I called that nigga like five times and he still ain’t pick up. This phone probably a blocked number or somethin’.”

“How did they catch you?” I overexcitedly blurted out.

“Fuck, the police busted my club. I own two clubs uptown; they busted one of ’em last week. I got pulled over, next thing I know I’m here. I was tellin’ my girl on the phone, why the fuck I’m here? I got pull over for speedin’, now I’m in bookings? That ain’t right.”

I was confused why she was in jail. What did her club and speeding have to do with each other? She had said she was here for prostitution, but now it seemed like she just got pulled over. I was captivated.

“You must have crazy stories, huh?” I eagerly asked. We were going to be in here a long while. But things were starting to look up.

She told me she owned an after-hours club with her boyfriend. She and ten other girls hooked from there, but she was the main one. The club had been under investigation for a few months and finally got busted last week. Speeding in her boyfriend’s car tonight, when she got pulled over and turned in her driver’s license, it was expired. Having been arrested just last week for being at the club (she had ultimately been let go by saying she was just a patron), the police were quick to arrest her for driving with a suspended license. That’s the story she told me, and I believed her. I would have believed it if she told me she had teleported here. This woman was the first woman I had ever met in the sex industry. She was my hero.

When she told me she had once posed in
Black Tail
magazine, I nearly fell off the bench. This was the least number of degrees there had ever been between me and porn.

“I look ratchety now but I clean up real nice, girl,” she assured me.

“What are you talking about? You’re so beautiful.” I meant it.

We continued to talk the entire seventeen hours I was there, except for a small nap we attempted to take a few hours after eating our sandwiches. We exchanged information on where we got our nails done. I liked a marble nail design; she preferred a clean French. When we got cereal for breakfast, she gave me her milk. “That shit make me gassy as fuck,” she told me.

By the time I left, I knew her whole life story. She knew nothing about me except for why I was there.

“It was really, really nice to meet you.” I said to her when my parents’ lawyer, Ezra, finally arrived. As the guard unlocked the gate for me, she looked at me with spite and did the twitchy thing when she blinked.

I left feeling incredibly inspired. “I just met the most amazing woman,” I told Ezra.

“Let’s not tell your mother,” he answered.

As I walked out to appear in front of the judge, I realized I never even got my hero’s name.

7
Art of the Blowbang

“I never said I wouldn’t fuck anybody! I said I wouldn’t fuck EVERYBODY! There’s a FUCKING DIFFERENCE!”

Just something our lovely neighbors can typically hear coming from our balcony on any given night. It’s not even embarrassing anymore, which is pretty shameful in itself. The problem with maintaining a relationship while pursuing a career in porn is that you have all the same problems as any other couple, but also a whole bunch of other bullshit added into the mix.

For the past three years, I’d been doing this series of movies called “Asa Akira Is Insatiable.” It’s difficult to bring these movies up without bragging about them; the first two alone have won about twenty awards. The premise is that I am, you got it, insatiable. Every movie escalates. My first anal and DP scenes were in the first one. In the second one are my first gangbang and double anal scenes. This next one, the third installment, I wanted to do the biggest blowbang I had ever done—eleven guys.

One of the greatest things about Toni is that he’s been in the porn business 20 years. Twenty fucking years. That’s longer than I’ve been having sex. It’s longer than I’ve been giving blowjobs. It’s pretty much longer than I’ve ever done anything, apart from just being alive. Because of this, he didn’t suddenly flip a 180 and freak out over my work like some of the guys I had been with before. He understands it’s my job, and as long as I stay respectful to him and follow a few of his rules, he doesn’t really care.

The main one of those rules is no more gangbangs. I mean, I get it. Who wants their girlfriend to be the girl being passed between ten guys in an abandoned warehouse? We aren’t swingers. Outside of our jobs, we don’t fuck other people. We don’t even have threesomes.

When I brought the idea of the blowbang up to him, Toni was cool with it. It’s funny how everyone draws the line
somewhere
. In his mind, I wouldn’t be fucking a group of guys, I would only be blowing them—and that was okay.

More than anything, Toni knew this movie was important to me. “Just don’t fuck everybody and turn it into a gangbang. I know that’s been your
thing
.” This would be my first group scene since we’d been together.

“I won’t! I won’t fuck everyone. I promise. It’s a blowbang.”

I specifically chose these words so that I could hold my own in an argument later, that
everyone
and
anyone
were not the same thing. Which, ultimately, I suppose, just proves that I knew I was going to do something wrong all along. (I should add Toni is from Spain, and English is his second language. So I had that on my side as well. I don’t fight fair, I know.)

Toni was right. I had a reputation for losing control in these type of scenes and turning them into all-out fuckfests. Something happens to me when I’m shooting a scene. Not just blowbangs and gangbangs, but any kind of scene. It never fails. I fall in love. Different from the emotional love I feel for Toni, but it’s definitely some kind of chemical reaction in my brain that gets me into that happy place, where I feel passionate, desperate, vulnerable, but all in a good way. It’s as if I’m in love with the
situation
, not the actual person I’m fucking. As odd as it sounds, porn has always been my dream. The thought of turning people on . . . doing something taboo . . . exposing myself for any perverts’ eyes to see . . . the performance of it all just gets me going.

Once I got to set I knew what I had to do. I pulled the director aside, my friend Sam. “Listen. I promised Toni I wouldn’t fuck everyone. I think I can get away with fucking three.”

“Which ones do you want? I’ll let them know ahead of time, and we’ll tell our other eight friends no sex today.”

“Pete for sure . . . His feelings will be hurt if I don’t choose him. Ralph, too.”

“Okay, and who else? Keep in mind that’s two white guys.”

“Right, right . . . Hooks is black. Let’s do him.”

Going into the scene, I didn’t realize what I was in for, but once we started, I had to get with the program real quick. I had done two blowbangs before, as well as two gangbangs, so I was already familiar with the “cocks everywhere” aspect. The problem was that I had never done a scene in which I was fucking
some
of the guys, but not
all of the guys
. Silently, I swore to myself I’d never do a scene like this again.

As a kid, I always sucked at sports. It was just never my thing. My shitty hand-eye coordination, my reluctance to work on a team due to being an only child, my overall lack of physical elegance (I didn’t even start walking until I was two years old), all contributed to my unpopularity in PE. Not to mention my now-ironic fear of balls coming at my face. I was always one of the last to be picked for a team. I knew I sucked.

Basically, this blowbang felt like PE class. And I was the team captain.

Hooks, you can fuck me. No, Eric. Pete, you’re in. Eric, I already said you’re not fucking me today. Snoop, I didn’t choose you. Go on the other side.

In both blowbangs I had done previously, I ended up fucking everyone. Mostly because I was so turned on and just wanted to feel a dick in my pussy. But once I had fucked one, I wanted to keep going and fuck two, then three, and by the time you’ve fucked three, it’s just bad manners to not let every
one play. This is secretly something I like about myself—I fantasize going down in history as a whore with a heart of gold.