"Do we really have to do this shoot, DeVon?" I whined. "I'm really not into licking other girls asscheeks for a fat paycheck. I mean, it is my job, but I do have boundaries." I had just gotten the rotten news that I would be doing a girl-on-girl scene. The agency had only picked me up because I was straightforward and sexy, the perfect dom. I'm sure of it. I was also into BDSM, and they needed more of my kind to stick around in case they had a shortage. I was a very special breed, and was actually on high demand a lot of the time. I had seen pretty much every expensive city you could think of, and every scummy, dirty, smelly set you couldn't imagine. My agency had paid for me to fly out to many countries that were way out of my league, just to do something I was barely even qualified to do.
I didn't love it. Hell, I didn't even like it! In fact, I hated my job, but I needed it to survive. If it weren't for porn, I would be living on the street. Thank God I'm not, though, because then I would probably have more meaningless sex than I am now. All the scumbags out there, just walking on the street. I mean, it is Florida, but still. You'd think they would be more on top of the police officers to do actual work, rather than sitting in their cars stuffing their faces with Dunkin' Donuts and cheesecake all the time. They think they're all that, those cops. Dirty fucking pigs.
Anyway, the only reason I'm doing porn is because I lost my job as a graphic designer after the, um, "freak accident" I may or may not have caused. I kinda maybe sorta spilled iced coffee on one of my coworker's $2000 designing laptops. We don't talk about that much around here. Or at all. "We" being my co-stars and producers, also managers, handlers, agents, make-up artists, hair stylists, dressers (although they don't do much dressing, if you know what I mean), and anyone else I might come in contact with during the span of this God-awful job. Mostly because I didn't want them to think (or know, rather) that I was such a nerd back before this little… experiment started.
"Why is it always me that gets the short end of the stick?" I mumbled. I guess the phone picked up my baleful statement because before I knew it, DeVon was practically ripping my head of from the other end of the line.
"You? Short end of the stick? Brittany, you're one of our top talents and most-wanted workers in your genre, hell, the whole biz! And you're complaining? Jeez. Girls really are your worst nightmares when it comes to being grateful about what you've been given. Our agency has given you everything! Free flights, clothes, and experiences you couldn't get anywhere else! Not to mention some of the finest male talent we could find for this genre! I swear, sometimes people just take for granted all the things they probably wouldn't have if they'd actually made a sensible deci- I mean…" DeVon trailed off as he remembered he could possibly get fired if he was found trash-talking the company, or the business in general. There was a dwindling supply of girls to choose from, and even less guys. They wanted to keep their reputation squeaky clean so they wouldn't be driving away more girls in need of some 'stress relief' and a little cash. Oh, how wrong they were. I really didn't understand that policy of maintaining a good rep, being a porn company and all. These guys really got it fucked up in every aspect of their lives.
"Goodbye, DeVon," I sighed. "I'm turning the corner. I'll see you in a few." I can't tell you how fast I hung up the phone after those last few words passed across my lips. I hated DeVon, if it was unclear before.
I wish I could go back in time. Really look at my life, my choices, and choose the other path. How many chances would I get to do that? That's right. Zip. Zilch. Zero. I sulked around the corner, but as soon as I saw the fluorescent lights of the enormous building in front of me, I brightened up and put on that fake plastic Barbie smile I had perfected by now. In fact, I had perfected a lot of fake things by now. Like every day how I faked pretending not to know that I was living a lie.
I don't even know how many times I woke up and cried softly into my pillow, as to not disturb my other roommates. How many times I tried to scrub the shame off of my body in the shower. How many times I covered my just-generic-enough-to-be-unrecognizable-on-the-street face with makeup to try to hide the pain I was feeling on the inside. It really sucked. It sucked being me. To live in a constant state of fear and denial. Fear that my parents would find out and disown me. Fear that I would be dropped by the agency and be blackballed by not one, but two different industries in less than 6 months. Denial that this was a temporary thing. Denial that I was going to get out, to leave my past behind me, to start a new life with a man that I loved. Long story short, I hated my life.
I walked in through the huge glass doors and was immediately greeted my the cool air blowing through the vents. They had to keep those models and actresses smelling rubbery fresh, right? I walked up to the clock in sheet and signed my initials and name. My stage name, that is. See, every actress and actor had to pick a fake name to use to keep their real identity private (so nobody could truly put a name to the face). "BSP|Amber Sin|12:39pm" the clock in sheet read after I was done with it. Yes. Amber Sin. Amber, because my first pet's name was Amber (and when I was confronted with a "You do know you need a name, right?" I panicked and that was the first thing that came to mind) and Sin, well, because, I was sinning. Selling my body for the slim chance that I would regain my dignity, and reclaim my life, in a couple of months.
I speed-walked to the locker room to put my stuff down for the day. As soon as I opened the large wooden door, the steam bombarded me and I could barely breathe. See, I hadn't been at work for the past couple of days because, you know… the red devil. Gross. I almost forgot the overpowering smell of Victoria's Secret perfume, talcum powder, and hairspray. I walked to my assigned locker, past the beautiful young girls with practically untouched bodies, being sold for their innocence, but still eager to start their new profession. I barely glanced at the old leathery-skinned ladies that fell into the (very technically named) MILF category. They kind of grossed me out. I knew it was a popular genre, though, because I knew this one kid in high school who dumped his girlfriend for an older woman who subscribed to his stupid pool cleaning business. I wonder what happened to him? I hate to admit it, but he's probably doing better than me right now.
As I approached my locker, I started to shift my things in my arms to make opening the combination lock a little easier. I eventually sat everything down on the bench, and twisted the dial until it opened. I barely even cared anymore, so I shoved everything except my phone in there and grabbed a granola bar from the box I kept up top. Then I headed back outside to start my long, treacherous day.
A/N: hey guys! so this is my first pic on here, and it's un-beta'd so please bear with me. it's not my first rodeo, though. i have a couple stories on my wattled, immaculategleek. i will also be posting this story on there so i can reach a wider audience, hopefully. any CONSTRUCTIVE criticism would be very helpful, so please leave a review, or feel free to pm me! thank you :)