Free Porn Star by Laurelin Paige, Sierra Simone

expansive bigness of the world, of Traci’s glowing skin, of the sunlight coming in harsh and bright through the window, of the subtle dynamic of power that coursed between us.  I didn’t feel like a boy who didn’t have his future figured out, a boy who already felt limited by a path he’d barely stepped on.
    I felt like a man.  And I threaded my hands through Traci’s hair and murmured everything I felt to her, I told her what I wanted her to do to me and what I wanted to do to her, and for a moment, I could tell that she was as lost in the scene as I was.  That despite the cameras—or maybe because of them—these sensations were galvanized into something exhilarating and intoxicating, and we both ended the scene filled with a sense of happy magic.
    The director was so pleased with my performance that he asked to do another film, and another, and another, and by the end of the summer, I’d made five thousand dollars by having sex on camera, with the promise that I could make more if I was willing to segue into hardcore pornography.
    I was.
    After signing with a talent agency, I cancelled my UCLA classes, told my shocked but accepting parents, and rented an apartment in Burbank.
    And that’s how I accidentally became a porn star.
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    Y ou’re right .  Porn is always the answer.  No wonder those people keep losing on Family Feud.
    That’s the first thing waiting on my screen when I wake up.  It’s crazy what falling asleep without half a bottle of whiskey will do for a man’s energy, and during the past week, the urge to go whiskey-numb has slowly diminished.  Part of it is Vida’s offer, an offer that I’m still trying to think of something for.
    And part of it is Devi, my personal Cassiopeia, my Persian Queen.
    But even thinking those words sends weird shivers down my spine, hot and cold flashes of lust and excitement, and also fear.  Because what if she doesn’t feel the same way I do?  What if I’m just that friendly guy she did a scene with once?
    Or worse, the guy who spurned her advances at a party?
    Fuck.
    Don’t I give great advice? I text back to Devi, still lying in bed.   I can’t believe I got fired from writing fortunes for the fortune cookie factory.
    No response.  Not for the first time this week, I wonder if I’m bothering her with my texts, intruding on what I imagine to be her well-ordered, healthy, beachy life.  Maybe she’s just tolerating me because she doesn’t want to be rude.  Maybe she actually thinks I’m pathetic—too limp-dicked to kiss her at Vida’s and now texting her like a boy in middle school.
    I let the phone drop to the comforter and groan.  I should leave her alone, I should bottle up this years-long crush I’ve had on her and give her space.
    But then she texts me back and I’m diving for the phone again.
    So tell me, O Wise One.  I’m thinking about maybe doing some mainstream scenes.  You know—with guys instead of girls.  What do you think?
    What do I think?  I think I want to run over to her place now and make sure I’m the first male performer on her list!  But no, I need to think like a friend and a mentor, not like a guy that jacks off to her every night.
    Hardcore? I ask.  A lot of people hear hardcore and think of extreme porn—BDSM and rough sex and all that, but really all it means is explicit.  In hardcore porn, you get to see all the good stuff happening, pussy-eating and ejaculation and actual fucking.  A lot of Devi’s lesbian scenes could be considered hardcore, since she goes down on girls sometimes and they go down on her.
    Yes, she texts back.   But nothing too intense.  No kink or group-sex.  I’m on the fence about anal.
    *On* the fence?  No, no, no, you’re supposed to be bent over the fence.   I can’t help myself. I’m only human.
    Har har har.  I don’t have anything against it—but I really don’t know if I could do it with just any performer, you know?  I’d want to be with someone I