Chapter 8: Porn Stars and Peccadillos
I seem to attract a certain kind of client on a regular basis. Businessmen on benders, sure, but also something darker, something weirder. Montreal, according to most Americans, is a hotbed of sexual activity, but for our friends in the lower 48 it’s actually best known for its booming porn industry. This was news to me, delivered by my first aspiring porn star-cum-client, Randy.
“Don’t y’all shoot pornos up here somewhere?” he asked me, ever so subtly. We were walking down Ste-Catherine, and he had spotted some of the signs indicating that the street would be blocked off tomorrow morning for another film shoot. Montreal doubles for New York City, LA and even Toronto on a fairly regular basis, as a weak Loonie has made for strong American dollars—along with some fabulously star-quality buying power. I think George Clooney may have passed us as Randy gaped, but Canadians aren’t the type to flock around stars and clamor for autographs. Just another perk of living in this city, especially when you’re famous. Or infamous.
“Of course. But it’s not like they’re open set, if you know what I mean.”
Randy pouted. “But you must know someone,” he pressed.
“You mean you’d like to meet some of the actresses?”
He blew air out of his mouth, ruffling his hair impatiently. “Not exactly.”
I pondered this for a moment, wondering if he meant what I thought he meant. “So… you’d like to do a casting call?”
“I’m ready to rock ‘n’ roll, baby. This six-shooter’s ready to blow!” he crowed. He cupped his crotch to indicate his pistola.
I smiled indulgently and racked my brain for a contact that wouldn't be offended by my bringing this Texas lunk to their set—or worse, their home turf HQ.
“It doesn’t have to be right now,” he reassured me. “In fact, I was thinking of getting a bite to eat first. Say, do y’all have those places where you can eat sushi off a live nude girl?”
I rolled my eyes at the request, but quickly plastered my smile back on. At least this query was run-of-the-mill. “Sure, Randy. Right this way.”
As we ambled down Ste-Catherine towards the sexy sushi spot, I scrolled through my address book in search of an impromptu porn director with a passably professional looking camera. My pervy friend Ian had always wanted to start a porn company, but he was in it more for the chance to fuck a few naïve starlets, and I doubted he’d take kindly to any requests to indulge a big-dicked American in search of porno pussy. Think, Frankie, think!
I almost laughed out loud when her name finally appeared in my scattered mind: Honey Lee. Of course! I texted her as Randy and I turned into the unassuming sushi shop, conveniently deserted at high noon. After chatting in Japanese with the proprietor, who knew all about her clients’ particular fetishes and fantasies and could tell just by looking at him that Randy was going to want the tiniest, tightest little Asian she could rustle up, I switched back to English to tell Randy it’d be a couple of minutes. Meanwhile, we could drink tea in the parlor. When the geisha-girl in a tight-fitting, short-skirted kimono finally came to accompany us to the tearoom, he looked like he was already about to bust a nut.
As the geisha giggled and fawned over Randy, allowing him to squeeze her diminutive cheeks, I got a ping! on my phone. Honey Lee had texted back, saying my proposal sounded like fun, and she had some free time in her schedule in the early evening. Score!
The geisha-girl departed, and Randy turned his attention back to me. “So, what’s the good word?”
“You’re in luck. Ms. Honey Lee is free this evening.”
“Honey Lee? Sounds… sweet.” He licked his lips.
“Oh, she’s about as sweet as southern tea,” I assured him.
Honey was originally a stripper, like most of us ladies in the biz. She got bored with the gig a bit quicker than most, but she’d always enjoyed the after-parties, with plenty of drugs and booze to go around—along with plenty of free-spirited sex workers willing to swing any which way on their time off. She was one of the few, the proud, the ladies who simply love to fuck. And since Honey enjoyed her work, she sure as hell didn’t mind being paid for it when she was in the mood for love.
Oddly enough, the payment was the real turn-on for Honey, as the more they paid her, the more she wanted them. But working in the clubs, where her profession lent itself more to the tease than sealing the deal, she wanted more. Lots more.
So, she saved up a couple thousand, bought a run-down loft in what was then the unpopular part of town, spruced the place up with her own unique style (some might say a cross between Betsey Johnson and the Marquis de Sade), transforming the three-story house into her fabulous living quarters and brand new studio space. The home of HoneyPot Productions was born.
These days, she’s the head honcho, performing all her own stunts as well as directing up-and-cummers in her boudoir. She hosts a daily show on her website, with a revolving cast of guys, gals, transsexuals and ex-lovers starring in what amounts to a sexual soap opera, serialized. Subscribers have all-access passes, while those who are just browsing can check out quick clips of Honey’s O-face, as well as work-friendly episodes of her shopping for groceries in a tiny negligee, among other hilarious “hot girl in too little clothing” trailers filmed on location around town. The lesbians love her, as do straight men that haven’t clued into her personal preferences, so it’s win-win all around.
“So… she’s going to need to see my bratwurst, right?” Randy asks, giving me an entirely inappropriate wink.
“She might. Ms. Lee works in mysterious ways,” I say, trying to give her a little leeway. Who knows what she’s actually got in store for this wannabe Ron Jeremy?
“I can do tricks with it,” he stage whispers.
“Tricks? What kind of tricks?” Now I’m just confused. You can do tricks with your penis?
“Yeah. Have you ever heard of ‘Puppetry of the Penis’?” he asks me, looking very serious indeed. It appears we have hit upon one of Randy’s true passions.
“No, I can’t say that I have,” I admit.
“Well… they're these Australian fags―at least, I think they’re fags… anyway, they can make their cocks into different animals and stuff.”
“You mean like shadow puppets?”
“Yeah, exactly!” He beams like we are really connecting, and I start to realize what a weirdo I’ve got on my hands. He sits around shaping his cock into animals? Like, beyond the typical trouser snake we all know and love?
“Oh. That sounds… interesting,” I say.
I have no idea why I said that. Puppets made out of someone’s penis don’t sound the least bit interesting, when you really stop and think about it. The only shape I am particularly interested in a penis being is engorged and penis-shaped. Bring me your hard-ons and I’ll show you a lady that loves to suck. But I digress.
“Yeah! It’s pretty fun. I can make a tiger, a lion and a panther,” he says. He doesn't seem to realize these are all, essentially, the same animal. Particularly as far as penis puppetry is concerned.
“Awesome,” I say, racking my brain for another line of questioning, or a train to derail this rather disturbing thought process. I surreptitiously text Honey that the client she’s going to be receiving has a thing for wiener wangs, among other odd predilections.
I wonder if Honey is going to really want to deal with this guy. He’s definitely moving into territory bordering on the bizarre. I’ve got plenty of experience dealing with all manner of perverts and posers, so it’s odd to realize that this is new territory for me.
“And I’ve been thinking about branching out into different scenes…” Randy is saying. I tune him out to concentrate on Honey’s texts, nodding my head at all the right moments, or whenever he appears to be pausing for effect.
Honey has texted back reassurances that she can handle any damn man who wants to “get all up in her grill,” and I believe her. She’s seen it all, by now. Even the likes of Randy LeRaunch.
Our sushi girl finally makes her appearance, shutting Randy up for a moment as he gawps over her tiny, thin form. She climbs onto our low-slung table and arranges her body carefully. The geisha assists, placing a pillow underneath her head, and the sushi chef (who must be completely affronted by the way in which his culinary masterpieces are being treated) lends a hand in the art of arrangement. By the time they two of them are finished, our sushi girl looks like she’s had a line of ikebana experts arrange an unusual bouquet of fish across her slender form.
Randy is salivating now, a Pavlovian mutt. I’m not sure which excites him more, the sushi or the girl obscured by his meal. A little of column A, a little of column B, I suppose.
The girl is stiff as a board, with tiny mounds rising from her chest creating miniature Mt. Sushi peaks. The sushi itself looks relatively inedible, at least to my eyes. I’m not exactly a connoisseur, but I do know that sushi rice ought to hold together under pressure―and I’d include being exposed to a woman’s naked flesh as “pressure,” wouldn’t you?
Randy doesn't care about any of that. He is hungrily gobbling up the bits of raw fish, caviar and rice in an effort to expose more of the girl’s body. He isn’t even bothering with the delicate cups of soy sauce and wasabi. It seems as though his plan of attack is to strategically remove all fish from her target areas: tits, crotch, belly button. What he’ll do next is a mystery to me. I excuse myself from the table and head to the ladies’ room as he plows his way towards total exposure.
In the cool, enclosed space of the ladies’ room, I close the toilet seat, heave a sigh and sit down. I think about having a cigarette, but it’s a little too early in the day for that indulgence. Instead, I pick up my phone and message Honey again. “This guy’s a freak. He’s gobbling an entire sushi bar off a geisha right now and thinks you're going to want to judge him by the size of his dick. What should I tell him?” I write.
She responds almost instantaneously: “Whatever he wants to hear. You’re the boss!”
I stand up and look at myself in the mirror. How have I gotten myself into this situation, anyway? Why am I giving stupid little sex tours to idiots like this, wasting my potential and my life instead of doing something useful or brilliant? I’m the boss, but the boss of what?
“You’re the mayor of shit,” I whisper to my morose face. Then I bare my teeth like a wolf about to strike.
Get out now, a little voice is nagging me, somewhere at the base of my skull. Could it be my conscience?
Shut up, I think. I have to finish what I started. I grab my lipstick and re-apply my war paint, square my shoulders back and give myself my favorite pep talk.
“You are the queen of your own destiny. You have chosen this life. You are responsible for all of your actions, and you can determine all of your outcomes. You are not a victim, and you cannot be stopped when you set your mind to something. Remember: It’s not who is going to let you, but who is going to stop you. Fuck this noise. Fuck these clients. Fuck the world. You are here to do the job the best you can, and you will not fail. Grab life by the balls and squeeze. You can do it. You are a motherfucking warrior queen. FIGHT!”
I return my lipstick and phone to my purse, take a deep breath to steel my resolve, and return to the dining area.
As I step back into the room, I notice that Randy’s cheeks are stuffed full of sushi. He resembles nothing more than an overgrown chipmunk, scavenging for the last acorns of the season. I almost laugh aloud at the sight, but manage to maintain my composure.
I’d better be in charge here, I think to myself. This fool certainly can’t handle any truthiness about the realities of the situation.
“Does your client need any other services?” Madame Khan asks me in Japanese.
“We’re on our way to another appointment,” I demure.
She nods and hands me the bill. I surrender my credit card and bow politely, and she returns the gesture.
“Come back anytime, Francesca-san,” she murmurs, floating off like a lotus flower on the gentle gust of a summer breeze.
For the privilege of experiencing this meal, Randy has incurred a $450 tab. And that didn't even include drinks. This business is getting more expensive every day. Maybe it’s about time I thought about getting out of the game.
For the record, there are most certainly rules about eating sushi off a naked girl’s body. Here they are, in case you’ve been wondering:
No touching, no tasting. Except when it comes to the sushi.
No mistaking a gal’s nether regions for “sushi,” just because you think they both “taste like fish.”
Eating is the only activity allowed within the dining area.
No pictures permitted.
All sushi must be consumed on the premises.
There is a 50-cent surcharge for each sushi roll not eaten, to prevent wasteful over-ordering.
Extra services may be ordered via the waitress, including massages and happy endings. These will all be performed in separate rooms, for sanitary, as well as legal, purposes.
If a geisha or server says no, she means no!! Violators of this rule will be immediately ejected from the premises, no questions asked. Your credit card can and will be charged for associated damages.
A credit card must be surrendered to the shop owner prior to entering the scene. Government-issued ID must also be shown, and photocopies will be made in order to prevent any violent activities.
And never forget Chris Rock’s rule of thumb: There’s NO SEX in the Champagne Room. Nor the Saké Room, for that matter.
Randy and I cab it over to Honey’s place, after he freshens up at his hotel. Both of us are nervous, having never been through a pornographic casting call, much less the rigors of a DIY porn star's directorial whims. I feel I’m in slightly better a position than Randy is; at least I’ve met Honey before, and I know she’s a good person that I can trust. But we work in the same industry, and we have a history, if not a common interest.
Randy, on the other hand, has no such guarantees. We could, in theory, rob this man blind and throw him to the wolves. Or the Hell’s Angels, if we saw fit. And I think he is finally, somewhere in the murky recesses of his amphibian brain, realizing this danger. His eyes are blinking much more rapidly, at any rate, and his breathing is quick and shallow. He’s scared.
Who wouldn't be?
I put a reassuring palm on his upper thigh and coo softly, “Don’t be nervous. Honey Lee’s a true professional.”
“That’s what I’m a-worried about,” he chokes out.
“Randy, you know you’re the man,” I soothe.
“Frankie… what if… I mean, what if she don’t think it’s big enough?”
“Oh, Randy, don’t be silly,” I chuckle. I catch the cab driver’s eyes in the rear-view and arch an eyebrow at him, as if to say Keep your trap shut.
“I mean, I know my six-shooter’s ready for anything, but… well, what are y’all used to up here?” he asks, nervously turning to face me.
“Montreal women are just like American women,” I assure him. “It’s not the size of your boat; it’s the motion of your ocean.”
“I was afraid you’d say that,” he mutters.
“Randy, you’re a regular stud! You told me about all your exploits. The preacher’s wife, the small-town girls you sweet-talked into an orgy… surely you’re not worried about a little ol’ camera?” I give him a playful punch on the shoulder.
“Ms. Parker, can I tell you something in confidence?” he asks, looking very worried indeed.
“Anything, Randy,” I say, stroking his arm.
“I… well, I lied about all that. I’ve never done any of those things. Although I’ve certainly dreamed about ‘em.” He looks like he is sincerely on the verge of breaking into tears. I can hardly believe it; this big galoot is confessing his sexual sins to me like I’m a priest able to dole out pardons! I swallow the urge to laugh, and try to think of an appropriately somber response to his dilemma.
“Well, Randy, we all embellish the truth a bit to impress the opposite sex,” I begin. “But isn't the point that you thought you could do those things, even if you never actually did them?”
He ponders this silently for a few moments. The taxi driver doesn’t make eye contact with me, steering us ever closer to our destination, our destiny.
“Well… I suppose that makes sense,” he finally allows.
“There you go! You’ve got to think positive, Randy. You’ve got it going on. Just look at you! You're tall, you're buff, you’ve got a gorgeous smile and a cute Texan accent—”
“Whaddya mean ‘Texan accent’!” he yelps.
“Just like in Midnight Cowboy,” I murmur, more to myself than to him.
“Oh, god, she’ll hate me!” he howls, pushing his face into his lap.
“No, no,” I soothe, patting him on the back. “Honey is a very multicultural kind of girl. And she loves a good accent.”
“Are you sure?” He rises back to a sitting position, and I can see his eyes are red from crying.
“Absolutely, darling. Now, here. Put these drops in your eyes and straighten yourself out. We're almost there, and you don't want to give Honey the wrong impression, do you?” I pass him a vial of Visine, which he plops expertly into each eyeball. No sense entering the scene with red eyes and a shriveled dick, is there?
He hands the bottle back to me, and I slip it into my purse.
“Okay, let's have a look at you,” I say.
He turns further to face me, and I take in his chiseled cheekbones, wild tuft of dirty-blonde hair and pouty lips. He squares his shoulders beneath a pearl-buttoned lime-green shirt, and I can see the hint of an erection pushing up on the crotch of his dark blue jeans. I rub a hand against his crotch and feel it stiffen, watch his face relax as he closes his eyes and leans back against the seat a bit.
“Good,” I pronounce, withdrawing my hand. He's as ready as he'll ever be. And whether or not Honey Lee decides he's worth her while, at least I'll get my money's worth for this little adventure.
He smiles brightly, convinced again of his own brilliance as a sex god, then tones it down to a confident look of certainty.
“Here we are, 4753 de Maisonneuve,” the driver announces, pulling to the curb and stopping the cab.
Honey's waiting for us at the door, an unheard of honor whether you're floating around in the small world of Montreal or circulating in the wider world of porn more generally. Since when have you ever heard of Spike Lee answering the door in his Converse, or Kevin Smith in his muumuu?
“Honey, darling,” I say, air-kissing both her cheeks twice. “How have you been?”
“I could've been better, but I could've been worse,” she says, punctuating the quip with a big horsey laugh. I've always admired Honey's laugh; it strikes me as genuine. Starlets with their fake giggles are a dime a dozen, but Honey's the real deal, right down to her weird equestrian bray.
Randy is looking like a third wheel, so I quickly introduce him.
“Randy, this is Honey Lee, world-class porn star, director and sartorial stylist of the stars.” I build her up a bit, but she deserves it. Isn't she just another glittering sparkler in the firmament?
“Honey Lee, meet Randy LeRaunch. He's come to us all the way from the Lone Star state,” I say, nudging her gently.
“Oh, my, I do declare!” Honey drawls in her best Scarlett O'Hara impersonation. Randy smiles, not sure whether she's mocking him specifically or the southern accent more generally.
Honey offers him her right hand, in a pose more suited to kissing her royal rings than shaking her paw as an equal. Randy, to his southern credit, does gentility proud and ducks his head in a little bow, laying a quick dry kiss upon her knuckles.
“Well, y'all must be parched!” Honey continues with the drawl. “Care to come into my parlor for a bit of... sweet tea?”
“Ma'am, I'd love a tall glass of sweet tea right about now,” Randy declares.
“I reckon,” Honey replies, giving him a mysterious wink. But I know that wink, and it means she's leading him on. Oh, Honey, if I'd never fallen prey to your wiles, I would never have known your studied glances like the back of my soft, Palmolived hand...
“Maybe we ought to skip the tea,” I murmur, warning Honey to play it straight with this boy. He is my client, after all. And I certainly want to get paid for this little outing.
“Why, Francesca J. Parker, I do declare... are you accusing me of recklessness under my own roof?” Honey gives me a secret wink of my own, but puts on a southern belle's pout that would shame any Dixie homegirl.
“Why, no, Ms. Lee,” I say, adopting the drawl on top of my much-put-upon Frenchy accent. “I'm just trying to make sure we all... get along.”
“Oh, we'll get along just fine, Francesca. S'long as you loosen up some.” Honey gives a quick tug at my blouse, popping a few buttons loose and exposing a bit more of my décolletage for all the world to see.
Randy nods approvingly, both at Honey's gesture and my heaving bosom, now barely concealed beneath my racy, lacy bra.
“Why, Ms. Parker, I didn't know you went in for all that hustle and bustle,” he grins, leaning back on Honey's hot pink leather couch. He spreads his legs wide, as if to accommodate a very pressing package.
I scowl at him briefly, then thrust my bosom out into the space of the room. After all, what do I care if a client sees my tits? They've seen much more on my website, whether they know it or not. The hot bod in my advertising is usually li'l old me, both because I'm too cheap to hire a model and because I know that the goods are what get paying clients in the door. No way in hell will I leave such things to chance. If I've still got it, I plan to flaunt it—at least until my tits sag down to my knees and a stiletto heel isn't enough to pump up my gams.
“There y'all are,” Randy crows in response to my thrusted chest. “Hello, ladies!”
Honey has disappeared into the back of the flat, presumably to fetch us drinks. I can hear glasses clinking and ice being dished into various vessels. I can only imagine what other goodies she's mixing into our libations.
“Randy,” I hiss, trying to play both good cop and bad cop simultaneously, “Don't you think you should get ready for your audition?”
“Oh, Ms. Parker, I feel ready for anything,” he whispers back. He can barely stifle the grin plastered across his face. He's like the rooster in the hen house, the cat who got the cream. There's no telling him he's here to get screwed, and not the other way around.
Honey returns with a tray full of hot pink drinks to match her flaming couch. “It's my signature drink, darlings: the Naked Montreal!”
“Why do you call it that?” Randy asks, scooping up one of the cosmopolitan glasses.
“Well, darling, that's for me to know and you to find out,” Honey smiles, sipping her own drink. She hands the last glass to me and gives me yet another of her enigmatic winks. I'm beginning to think Randy and I are both screwed, in this particular situation, though I haven't quite figured out Honey's game.
“Honey,” I begin, after a sip of the sugary sweet liquid, “What did you have in mind for Randy here?”
“Oh, Francesca, must you ruin everything with talk of business?” Honey murmurs. She scoots closer to Randy on the couch and traces a long pink nail against the side of his face.
Randy looks a bit like a deer caught in the headlights, but he covers it well, gulping back the rest of his drink and leaning forward to place the empty glass upon Honey's mahogany coffee table.
“Let me take a look at you, boy,” Honey says, motioning for Randy to stand up.
Randy pales ever so slightly, but gets to his feet and offers Honey his Texan pride stance: stiff and straight in his cowboy boots, shoulders squared, thumbs looped in his belt buckle, which features an oversized longhorn bull offering any viewers his enormous horns. Randy is no shrinking violet, though he may feel like a three-year-old baby girl shivering on the inside.
Honey asks him to turn around, and Randy obliges with typical Texan swagger. He takes his time, making sure Honey has a chance to check out his fine (and rare) southern bubble butt before pivoting back to his original position.
“An interesting specimen, indeed!” Honey declares.
Randy looks pleased at this, and Honey shoots me another of her covert glances.
“Now, darling, tell me: what are your unique skills?” she begins. She expertly lights a cigarette, points her penetrating steel gaze at Randy, and lowers her eyelids to stun.
“My... skills, ma'am?” Randy repeats. He is flustered now. Doesn't she know that his skill lies in the bedroom?
“Yes, monsieur, your skills. Presumably you do have some, hmm? Can you cum on command like Monsieur Jeremy? Can you stay hard for eight days straight like Monsieur Steele? Can you contort your body into unusual poses like―”
“Contort? Aw, hell, yeah! I thought you'd never ask. You know them Puppetry of the Penis fags?” He is unbuckling his belt, getting ready to give us the Circus of the Stars. It's like watching a ghastly high-speed wreck, yet I can't look away.
“The what?” Honey asks. Now it's her turn to look stumped.
“Here, let me show you. You said skills, I can turn this here rocketship into a panther or a spitting cobra...” he begins, fishing his cock out of his under-drawers.
“STOP,” Honey commands, holding her right hand up in a firm gesture. “I do not want sexual perverts in this studio. Are we clear? You will do as I say, nothing more and nothing less. If I tell you to jump, you should ask me how high, or simply begin jumping until I tell you to stop. Are we quite clear, Mr. LeRaunch?”
Randy nods meekly in response.
“Well?”
“I mean, yes sir, ma'am!” he shouts.
“There's a good little soldier,” Honey says, her tone soothing back into the southern-tinged purr. “Now, strip down to your skivvies and let's see what you've got under your gear.”
We both cross our legs and sit up straighter, lording the power over this poor dumb hick. This is Randy’s moment to shine, and he plucks up his stupidly misplaced courage. Just like a trained Chippendale dancer, he pulls his t-shirt over his head in a long, slow reveal of tight abs and pecs. He tosses the shirt my way, which I neatly deflect, but I blow him a kiss just to play along. He tosses a smirk my way, as well as a raised eyebrow that reads How d'ya like me now, baby? He slides his jeans down in a seductive, studied manner. Perhaps he has trained in the clubs?
Left with nothing but his boxers, tenting, he completes the pièce de resistance: he rips them from his body in a quick motion. Snaps? Velcro? Sheer brute strength? Neither of us can be sure, but we offer him a bravissimo of applause.
“Very good. But you forgot one thing,” Honey observes.
“What's that?”
She pointedly stares at his socks. They are bright white, like a Tide commercial, and come halfway up his calves.
Randy unceremoniously removes his socks, balling them up most unsexily and tossing them into the corner of the room.
“Better. Now, have you any signature moves?” Honey asks.
“Well, Ms. Lee... I think it'd be a lot easier if I just... showed you.” He stands up straight as he says this. As if he really believes the great and powerful Honey Lee, pornographer extraordinaire, is going to let him assault her divine personage, affront it with his mortal's lips and dick and flesh?! He must be on crack!
Honey gives me a curious look, as if to say Where did you find this unique specimen?
I shrug and give her the I told you so look.
She shakes her head and returns her attentions to Randy, pondering this flabbergasting information.
“All right, Monsieur LeRaunch. I will let you have your moment in the spotlight. DENISE!”
A short, stacked redhead in stilettos struts out from the back room, dressed in little more than her bra and panties. “Yes, Ms. Lee?”
“Monsieur LeRaunch here, Randy, will play a scene for us. Randy, this is Lola Firecracker. You may have seen her in such films as―”
“The Randy Firecracker, A Redhead's Delight, Hell's Half-Acre, Rotcrotch Tumbleweed and Pippi Schlongstocking, yeah... I love your work,” Randy finishes Honey's sentence for her. He is awed by the diminutive Lola, and offers his hand for her to shake. She rolls her eyes and shakes his hand quickly, as if he's unduly burdening her with his lust. Which he is, but shouldn't that still be kind of flattering for a third-rate porn star?
“Okay. Lola, you're on the bottom. Get yourself ready for Randy. Randy, you'll need to stand here, and pretend the camera's on that wall, okay? Play to it, and don't obscure my view, all right? I'm the audience. I need to see everything. And… action!”
Lola lounges back on a divan, lazily fingering her pussy. Randy watches her do it, and automatically begins stroking the shaft of his cock. Lola looks bored, though her pussy reacts with moisture, and blooms under her touch. Randy’s breathing gets heavy as he keeps stroking himself, edging closer to Lola's naked body as if timing it out.
His cock has a pearlescent glob of cum forming at the head, and Randy looks as if he's about to squirt, so he lowers himself down to Lola's aperture and readies himself for the thrust.
“CUT!” Honey shouts.
Randy nearly falls off the divan. “What? Cut? Why?”
“Because I say so. I am the director, and I say cut. So, CUT!” Honey hisses.
I love how bitchy she's being. After all, it's not like she's really going to let my idiot client fuck her best porn star right here in the living room. Is she?
“Monsieur LeRaunch, I believe we are finished for today. But we can maybe use you in a scene tomorrow afternoon at 3, if you can find room in your terribly busy schedule?” Honey throws me a meaningful look, and yet another wink.
“Tomorrow? Absolutely!” he says, looking simultaneously excited and pissed. The blue balls are getting to him.
Lola has already strapped her tits back into her bra and covered up that smooth-shaven pussy of hers. She is now idly picking at her nail polish, as if debating a manicure.
“Ta-ta for now, my darlings,” Honey calls over her shoulder, pulling Lola down the darkened hallway and disappearing into the back of the house. We’ve been dismissed.
* * *
When Randy and I return the next day at the appointed time he is nervous, practically bouncing off the walls with his jittery energy.
“How many cups of coffee have you had?” I ask him.
“None,” he says, continuing to jiggle and pace the room.
“None?”
“Well, I had some caffeine pills, but no coffee,” he admits.
“How many caffeine pills?” I ask, watching his feet skittering across the room in his alligator boots.
“Five. Why?”
Can he not see his eyeballs are shaking? No, I guess he couldn't. “Um... no reason. Did you take anything else?”
“Good lord, Frankie, I'm not a drug addict.” He whispers the last words of the sentence, as if just speaking them aloud will strike him dead.
“No, I didn't mean... I mean, I just thought―”
Before I can explain that I was thinking of a certain little blue pill, Honey Lee sweeps into the room wearing her directorial kimono.
“I trust we are all well-rested and ready to rock?” The way she says it, it's a command, not a question. We follow her as she turns on her impossibly high heels and struts off to the studio.
“Ready for your big-screen debut?” I ask Randy.
“Shhh,” he responds. “I'm trying to get into character.”
I am about to ask “What character?” but think better of it. We follow Honey into the studio's main set, a bedroom featuring a king-sized bed. It's not circular or heart-shaped, as you might expect from a typically cheesy porn set. It's just a bed, with a well-designed headboard that looks sturdy enough to withstand a lot of jackhammering, and has perfectly placed slats for attaching handcuffs or other restraints.
The walls are also painted hot pink, the same shade as the sheets.
“It's like a giant pussy,” Randy mutters.
“Exactly!” Honey replies. “This is the woman cave, a space for ladies to get in touch with their primal nature. We shoot all our domination scenes in here to remind the men who's boss.”
“Domination?”
“That's right, Tex. Think you can handle being roped like a steer?”
“Uh... Ms. Lee, if it's all right with you...” Is Randy going to chicken out on us, after all the effort it took to get him here?
“Yes?” Honey Lee doesn't take no for an answer. She looks as if she's already donned her jewel-encrusted battle shorts and is impervious to any slings and arrows Randy may be planning on hurling her way.
“Well... I... I mean... uh... I'm in your hands, Ms. Lee,” he finishes weakly.
Honey smiles. “Don't worry, Tex. I wouldn't start you with a domination scene. We like to save that for the old hands. Let's get you into position, shall we?”
Randy looks intensely relieved, though now he's not sure what she means.
“Did you want me to, uh... get undressed?” he asks.
“Yes, that would be great. Starla, can you bring Mr. LeRaunch a bucket of lube and a glass of water?”
An assistant scurries off to obtain the necessities.
“Now, Randy, once you've put your clothes over on that stool come and meet Lola back here on the bed.”
Lola the lizard from yesterday's try-out is lounging lazily on the hot pink bed. Her nails have been freshly manicured; I can tell by the violently pink talons she's currently sporting. Why do all porn stars wear these fake nails, anyway? It can’t be comfortable, particularly during oral sex scenes when they violently manipulate each other’s most delicate bits. I wonder if anyone's ever lost one of those nails inside an orifice? Ouch.
Randy strips down quickly and deposits his clothing on the stool as instructed. He isn't making eye contact with me, so I can't give him the “If you want out, we can always bail” signal I give my clients in potentially compromising situations. He scoots over to receive further direction from Honey.
“Now, this scene should be an easy one. We're just trying to get a feel for how you come across on camera. No need to take it to the hoop, if you know what I mean.”
Randy nods, but looks a bit lost.
“Lola here is a sweet co-ed. She's been waiting for you all night, and she's ready to party. You're just here to service her and split, got it?”
“Yes, ma'am,” he replies, priming his pump. After yesterday's performance, I'm surprised to see how small he looks, rolling his cock in his hand in an attempt to get it ready for the business at hand.
“Are you almost ready?” Honey asks, eyeing his efforts.
“Should be just a minute...” he says, rubbing harder. There is no noticeable effect on the instrument at hand.
Honey waits, checking her watch, as Randy keeps grinding away at his recalcitrant member. The seconds tick by as we collectively hold our breaths, trying not to stare. It's practically impossible. After all, when has an exposed dick ever NOT been at the center of a room's attention?
Randy looks like he is throttling himself at this point, his eyes bulging out of his head, small beads of sweat appearing at his hairline, and his hand furiously thrusting to no avail.
“Honey,” I whisper, motioning her over with a finger. She just waves me off, watching Randy’s solo performance. I wonder if it's time for drastic measures, like a cyanide capsule or quick shot of something. Doesn't adrenaline perk up the bloodstream? Maybe a little heroin to get the motor running?
“Randy, it's okay if you're not―” Honey begins.
What happens next surprises all of us, as Randy leaps across the room like a gazelle startled by a lion. He grabs the nearest object to hand, which just so happens to be one of the largest dildos I've ever seen. Lola is leaning her head back in a distinctly leonine yawn as Randy leaps back to the bed with the dildo and unceremoniously thrusts it into her oddly unguarded pussy. She gives a screech as it slides in, to the hilt, and Honey motions manically at the camera girl to get in tight at this angle.
We all watch, with a mixture of fascination and horror, as Randy saws back and forth with the giant cock, Lola feigning utter excitement as her eyes convey total terror. The enormous dildo is as wide as Randy’s fist, and Lola is trying her best to pretend this happens every day. As Randy continues to force the lumbering cock in and out of her vulva, she pants and moans and screams out “Fuck me, Randy! Oh yeah, baby! Just like that, baby! You dirty fuck!”
Randy is grinning now, giving it to her hard and fast like a man on a holy mission to convert this wild-child with the zeal of a new recruit in the church of sex. His own cock is starting to stiffen up at last, but he keeps on with the dildo until Lola gives a convincingly long wail to end the scene.
“CUT!” Honey shouts. Randy immediately ceases his motion with the oversized dick and spins around.
“How was I?” he asks. He is beaming with pride and anticipation.
“What the hell was that?” Honey demands.
“Total fucking improv!” Randy laughs.
“You know I can't use that scene at all, don't you?” Honey scowls.
“What? Why not?”
“There's no FLESH, Tex. This is a porno. We want dicks in pussies, okay? Live nude girls. Big dicks bursting. Flesh on flesh. No exceptions, no substitutions. Which part of that formula do you not get?”
“Well, hell, Honey, I couldn't get the ol' dipstick oiled up, so I figured... well, I mean... I took the bull by the horns, didn't I?” He looks angry now, as if Honey has accused him of pissing in her cornflakes.
“I can't use it, Tex. Get out.” Honey storms off, and the rest of her bootlickers start to clean up the mess.
“Fuck you!” Randy shouts. “That was fucking brilliant, you stupid cunt! You wouldn't know a porn genius if he hopped up and farted in your face!”
He grabs up his clothes and quickly stuffs himself into his jeans and boots before huffing out the front door.
I follow behind him, clacking down the sidewalk and trying not to trip in my Louboutins. “Wait up, Randy!” I shout.
“That bitch,” he seethes, pulling his shirt on over his head. He stops suddenly, realizing I am trailing far behind, and waits for me to catch up.
“I thought it was a great move,” I offer. I try not to pant as I struggle to catch my breath. “Very clever use of the prop department.”
“Well, hell, how can she say she can't use the damn scene?” he demands.
“Who knows, Randy. It's her show, after all. She's the director. Maybe she just had something else in mind.”
“Bullshit. She's a ball-buster, pure and simple,” he spits.
“Forget about it,” I say. “Let's grab a cab back to Salon Officiel and we can get something to drink.”
“Nah, I've gotta get it outta my system first,” he says. “You know any nice gals for me to play with?”
“I know a few nice girls,” I say, patting him on the shoulder. I tap out a few texts to my stable of lady friends, hoping it's not too early in the morning for them. We hail a cab and get in, with instructions to head back to Randy’s hotel. There's a shower he can clean up in, and a nice whirlpool tub, too, in case he and his friend feel like availing themselves of these options.
I finally get a few ladies on the line and show Randy pictures. He chooses a redhead, like Lola, and the game is back on. At the hotel, I introduce them and leave them alone together, telling them I'll be in the bar if they need me. Randy passes me a large wad of cash with a smile on his face, and my duty is done. Crisis just barely averted, but at least it wasn't a total write-off.
Next time Miss Honey Lee owes me a big one.