“Interview With A Porn Star”
Jason Luke
Copyright © 2014 Jason Luke
The right of Jason Luke to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any other means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the author. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
Prologue.
The girl came from behind the tinted glass doors, out into the bright sunshine. She was naked. She had short blonde hair, a flawless tan, and breasts that were made impossibly perfect by surgery.
She came across to the recliner where I sat and stood over me, her slim teenager figure blocking out the mid-morning sun that was burning through the L.A. smog.
She cleared her throat to get my attention and there was a folded newspaper in one of her hands. She smiled sweetly. We had spent the night before together. Her name was Candy… or maybe Mandy.
She stood at attention for an instant and cleared her throat.
“Pisces,” she said the word like it was an announcement, then began shuffling from foot to foot because the pavers around the swimming pool had baked hot. “You’ve never been shy about speaking your mind, but for the next few days, it’s going to come even more easily – and others will seem to be antagonistic. Since you love surprises, be ready for anything, from phone calls to unexpected visits to invitations to travel. You’re always up for this sort of thing, but life won’t be smooth.”
The girl lowered the paper and her face re-appeared, still smiling.
“You’ve got good stars, Rick,” she declared.
I ignored her. “What time is it?”
“After eleven,” she said. “Why?”
I sat upright, swung my feet to the ground. “Because I have a reporter coming to interview me in less than an hour,” I said.
The girl backed off a step, but her face became alight with mischief. She reached out and rubbed the front of my jeans boldly, her hand tracing the thick swell of my cock. I felt myself leap and pulse instinctively within the grip of her fingers. “Well, that still gives us plenty of time…”
I smiled a smile I didn’t feel. I was hung-over. “Maybe some other time,” I said blankly. “I’ll call you, Candy.”
The girl pouted with the spoiled expression of a child as I walked away. “My name’s Brandy!” she called after me.
* * *
Chapter 1.
The knock was timid, almost reluctant. I fumbled with the buttons on the front of my shirt and cast a final quick glance around the living area, then opened the door, smiling.
“Hello,” I said. “I’m Rick Cassidy.”
The woman extended a hand. Her fingers were long and delicate, the nails polished and carefully manicured. I noticed a ring on one finger: a slim silver band with a tiny stone set into it.
The woman smiled nervously. She was older than me – maybe thirty-five. She had long dark hair, tied in neat braid so that the plait hung down between her shoulder blades. She was expensively dressed in a dark grey skirt and matching jacket over the top of a white blouse, distorted in its shape by the press of her breasts.
Her skin was pale, her figure slim. Her legs were long in sheer nylon, the heels making her appear a couple of inches taller.
She moved with a kind of anxious strain.
She smiled politely. Her eyes were sparkling green, with tiny flecks like gold around the edge of her iris. She was watching me intently with an expression I couldn’t read. Maybe it was amusement, or maybe cool derision.
Or maybe it was a combination of both.
“Hello,” she said, in a voice that was husky and cultivated. “My name is Connie Wright from ‘Infinity’ magazine. I’m here for the interview.”
I held the door open wide and ushered her into the cool of the house. She stood in the entry for a moment like a real estate agent inspecting a property. She turned to me and smiled. “It’s a beautiful home you have,” she said.
I smiled again but shook my head. The house was perched high in the hills overlooking the city below – but it wasn’t mine.
“I’m only renting it for the next week,” I explained. “The house belongs to a film producer friend of mine. I’m only making use of it until I finish my publicity commitments. Next week I fly back home.”
The journalist looked politely surprised. “Oh? So where in the world do you call home?”
“Europe,” I explained. “I have a property in France.”
The woman drifted across the living room, her eyes taking in the expensive furnishings, the priceless artworks on the walls, and then a litter of empty bottles standing like soldiers on the kitchen counter. “France?”
I nodded. “I have a home there, and I’ve also built extensive film sets and production facilities,” I explained. “And it suits my work. A lot of the actresses I use in my films are based in Europe, so it made sense to relocate there for filming.”
The woman looked intrigued. “But you’re an American, right?”
I smiled. “Born and bred,” I confirmed. “I’m a Texan boy.”
We stood there for a long moment in an awkward silence, as though – now that all the polite niceties had been completed – there was nothing left to say.
“Would you like to start the interview right away?” I asked, “Or would you like to see the rest of the house first?”
The woman had a handbag hung from a strap over her shoulder. She set it on a chair in the corner of the room and smiled again, her expression still filled with fluttering nerves. “I’d love to see the rest of the house,” she said.
I led the way down the hallway, opening doors as I went and pulling back heavy drapes to show the breathtaking views of L.A.. The bedroom door was still open and the woman leaned across the threshold, saw the tangle of sheets strewn across the mattress and turned her head to me, one eyebrow raised pointedly. “I hope my arrival hasn’t disturbed you?”
The question was a loaded one, with multiple layers of meaning that I chose to ignore.
“Not at all,” I said. I pulled the bedroom door closed behind us and lead her out through the sliding glass doors to the pool area.
Set amongst landscaped gardens and concrete waterfalls was a good-sized swimming pool, the water crystal clear and sparkling blue. Nestled around the edges of the pool was a cluster of wrought iron chairs and a table, shaded by a bright yellow beach umbrella.
The woman made a clucking sound of approval in the back of her throat and turned to me. “This is spectacular,” she said. “I had no idea actors in pornographic movies lived this kind of luxury lifestyle.”
I frowned. “Really? What exactly were you expecting?”
The woman blinked and shook her head like the answer escaped her. “I don’t know,” she confessed. “I didn’t really have any expectation – but I certainly didn’t anticipate this!” She threw her hands wide in a gesture that seemed to encompass the house, the furnishings, the swimming pool and the surrounds all at once.
The midday sun was blazing hot. High in the sky overhead a jetliner began its descent towards L.A.X.. I took the woman gently by the elbow and escorted her back inside, into the cool of the
house.
We stood in the living room for a moment, blinking our eyes until they adjusted to the cool gloom.
“Would you like a drink?” I asked.
The woman shook her head.
“Are you sure? I have everything – and I mean everything you could possibly imagine. Just name your poison.”
She smiled politely, shook her head.
I went into the kitchen and cleared away enough empty bottles from the breakfast bar to set down a clean glass. I fetched a handful of eggs from the refrigerator, separated the whites and poured the slime into the glass. I stood by the kitchen counter for a moment, then chugged the concoction down my throat.
The woman looked at me like I was insane. “I can’t believe you drank that.”
I shrugged. “Egg whites are full of protein,” I explained. “Most guys in the industry drink egg whites, or take a cocktail of herbs and vitamins.”
“For stamina?” she sounded incredulous.
“No, for the money shot,” I explained. “Lots of egg whites help in the production of semen. It creates a greater volume at the moment when I – ”
She threw up her hands and clamped them over her ears. “I get it!” she said. “God, I get it.”
I shrugged again, and then frowned, a little irritated. I stared at the journalist for a long moment and tried to remember her name.
“Connie…” I began carefully, “you know I am a porn film actor, right?”
The woman nodded. “Of course.”
I shook my head. The frown stayed on my face.
The woman looked suddenly alarmed. “Why? Is there something wrong?”
I set the glass down aside. “Yeah,” I said. “Your attitude.”
The woman flinched like she had been slapped in the face. “My attitude? What do you mean?”
“You don’t seem like the kind of lady who would be interested in interviewing a man like me.”
“What makes you say that?” she became defensive. “Because I didn’t want to hear about the size and strength of your come shots?”
I nodded. “There’s that,” I said, “and also your attitude when you saw the house. It was like you expected a porn actor to be holed up in some dingy, rat-infested apartment in the middle of a ghetto.”
She stared at me, her gaze wavering and I could see some kind of turmoil going on behind her eyes. She propped one hand on her hip in a gesture of defiance and the tension stretched out. She took a deep breath. “Look,” Connie said, “I don’t have to like this assignment in order to write a good article. I’m a journalist, and I’m damn good at my job. I assure you, Mr. Cassidy, that my personal beliefs about what you do for a living will in no way affect my article.”
“Your personal beliefs?” I antagonized her.
“That’s right. My personal beliefs.”
I came from behind the kitchen counter. “You don’t like me, do you?” I asked casually. I lit a cigarette and tossed the lighter onto the counter. “You don’t like me at all.”
The woman hesitated, held my gaze for long seconds like maybe she was deciding how honest she could be. “No,” she said finally. “That’s not true. I don’t know you – but I don’t like what you are, or the industry you represent.”
I exhaled a thin feather of blue smoke at the ceiling. “Is there a difference?”
“There is to me,” she said. “I don’t like the work you do, or the money you make from filming young women having sex. I think it’s outrageous – abhorrent.”
I nodded. “Fair enough,” I said amiably. “But at least I’m honest, Connie. At least with me there is nothing fake, nothing untrue. Can you say the same about yourself?”
The woman didn’t answer for a long moment. When she did, her tone was almost offended.
“Of course,” she said.
“Really?” my smile became mocking but there was steel hidden behind the taunt. “You’re a journalist,” I said with scorn. “You people prey on the misery of others. Tragedy and horror are your stock-in-trade. Journalists sell millions of newspapers by spreading fear – and TV stations and magazines are just as bad. Journalists chase ambulances, interview the bereaved and invade the privacy of anyone… and they do it all in the pursuit of a story without any regard for the people who’s lives they expose and profit from.” The anger in me flashed like a spark, then burned out just as quickly. My tone became almost listless, my voice conversational once more. “So don’t fucking lecture me about my career choice.”
It was as if I had thrown a hand grenade. Suddenly, there was a black scorched crater of space between us. The woman stared and for long moments I expected her to snatch up her handbag and leave.
She didn’t.
She didn’t move.
I smiled. “Okay,” I said brightly, shrugging off the last smoking tendrils of my anger. “Now that we understand each other, would you like to start the interview?”
The woman didn’t move.
“Connie…?”
The woman blinked. Once.
I tried a different tack. I shook my head. “So, if you feel so strongly about the work I do, why did the magazine send you to do this interview?”
The woman finally stirred but I sensed her outrage was still smoldering. It seemed to take a great force of effort for her to smile, and when she did it was furtive. “It’s a long story,” she said with a sigh of breath she had been holding for minutes.
I nodded. “Tell me,” I said.
She sat down on the sofa and crossed her legs. She took a long time to settle herself, re-gather her composure.
“When I heard about the chance to interview someone within the porn industry, I immediately volunteered,” she explained. “That was a couple of weeks ago. But the editor gave the job to another journalist. That’s who you were supposed to meet today – but she took ill at the last moment, and so the job was handed to me.”
I thought for a moment, becoming offended. “So you didn’t actually want to interview me – you just wanted to interview anyone within the industry.”
She nodded, becoming awkward.
“Why?” I asked. “Why are you so interested in porn films?”
She didn’t answer. Instead, she changed the subject.
“There must be a lot of men who would love a job like yours,” she began, like she was buying a moment of time to organize her thoughts. “So what sets you apart? What makes you so successful and in such demand?”
I frowned, bemused. I stared hard at her. “You don’t know?”
The journalist shook her head apologetically.
“I’m sorry,” she confessed. “I wasn’t expecting to interview you so soon. I normally research beforehand.”
“At least you’re honest,” I grunted. I pushed myself away from the counter and stood before where she sat. “This,” I said. I unsnapped the button of my jeans. I wore no underwear. My erection, half-hard, thrust out, swelling in size in an instant right before her shocked face. “Ten inches,” I muttered. “Hard as an iron bar. That’s what gets me the work – and that’s why I’m known as ‘Rick the Dick’.”
Chapter 2.
“Are you okay, Connie? You look hot, and your face is flushed.”
The journalist had her head turned away from me.
I tucked myself back into my jeans and refastened the zip and button, still smiling thinly. “Did I offend you? Is the sight of a man’s hard cock something you find upsetting?”
The woman’s lips were pursed, and she was staring away at the wall across the room. There were soft spots of color on her cheeks.
“Did I put you in an awkward situation?”
She turned back to me slowly and lifted her face to mine. “You could have put my eye out with that thing,” she muttered dryly.
I nodded to myself. The woman was feisty. I liked that.
“You’re going to be trailing behind me for what? Three days? Maybe four, right?”
The woman licked dry lips and then nodded. “Probab
ly three,” she said.
“Well then if you want to write a feature article for your magazine about who Rick Cassidy really is, you’re going to have to accept me, and accept the way I live my life.” I sat down on the sofa beside her and my tone became conciliatory. I patted her knee and she flinched, stiffened. Connie swiveled her head and looked straight into my face.
“How dare you,” the journalist’s voice suddenly became low and quivering. She glanced down at my hand on her leg, then back into my eyes. Her lips had turned frosty white as the blood drained away from her face. I felt a rush of reckless excitement at her reaction. Her anger was too swift and out of all proportion. I took my hand away from her knee, first letting my fingers linger on her thigh for long tantalizing seconds so that my touch became a caress.
Connie’s lips remained a thin compressed line, as though there were angry words leaping to her throat that she was struggling to contain. I smiled and it was a taunt and a tease.
“My life is all about fucking,” I said. “It’s all about pleasures of the flesh, Connie. My life is one incredible sexual adventure with multiple partners and multiple positions. Every night – and most days – are filled with fresh young girls with tight hot pussies. It’s what I live for. It’s what makes me who I am. You need to understand that if you’re going to write an article that is accurate… and honest.”
Connie’s eyes lit up with flickers of fire, and there was strange fury in the way she spoke to me, like a sparking fuse about to ignite.
“I do understand that, Mr. Cassidy,” she hissed. “I’m a professional journalist. I’ve been writing feature articles about celebrities for many years… and I do accept that for the next few days there are going to be things I see and things I hear that may not meet with my personal approval, or align with my personal opinions,” her voice rasped. “But let’s get one thing clear right now,” she held up an accusing finger and pointed it at the center of my chest. “I am not one of your fresh young pieces of pussy. I am not the kind of desperate girl who would sell my body to you so that you could capture it on film,” her voice began to rise and her tone became venomous. “So keep your hands off me, you arrogant bastard!”