Dirty Thirty Read online

  Copyright © 2016 by Asa Akira.

  All rights reserved. Except for brief passages quoted in newspaper, magazine, radio, television, or online reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying or recording, or by information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Published in the United States by Cleis Press, an imprint of Start Midnight, LLC, 101 Hudson Street, Thirty-Seventh Floor, Suite 3705, Jersey City, NJ 07302.

  Printed in the United States.

  Cover design: Scott Idleman/Blink

  Cover Art: David Choe

  Text design: Frank Wiedemann

  First Edition.

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Trade paper ISBN: 978-1-62778-164-0

  E-book ISBN: 978-1-62778-165-7

  Dedicated to Toni

  Intro

  It was one month and thirteen days before my birthday. I wasn’t normally one for counting down to holidays—especially when they were personal—but this was a special one, my thirtieth. So far, anticipating it was turning out to be a lot like waiting for a tab of acid to hit; one by one, as my peers experienced the customary thirty-year-old freak-out, I patiently waited for my turn. With every moody period day, I wondered: Is this is it—am I feeling it? Is this the beginning stage? Is this when I start to panic about my age? I think I’m feeling it! But as every period ended, I realized no, this was not it. I was still stone-cold sober.

  For as long as I could remember, I’d known with absolute certainty that turning thirty came with a whole show of dramatics. Knowing this was like knowing the earth is round. On television, in the movies, there was always the girl on her birthday, crying because nothing had gone according to plan, crying because her boyfriend had not proposed, crying because of, well, just the overall pressure of being a real-life adult. It had been ingrained in me, the idea of the thirty-year-old’s panic attack. Whenever someone asked me my age, I found myself automatically saying something like “I can’t believe I’m about to be thirty. That’s so crazy.”

  The truth was, it didn’t feel crazy at all. I almost—no, absolutely—wished it did. It was what I’d been expecting. Sometimes I would try to force myself to think of all the things I thought I’d have by this age but didn’t: a child, a primary care physician, a credit card. I’d close my eyes and concentrate on thoughts like: My mom was already pregnant with me at this age. Biggie had already been dead for seven years when his thirtieth birthday came around. I didn’t think I’d be thirty with Hello Kitty stickers still on my phone. I didn’t think I’d be thirty and still be watching Teen Mom; grownups didn’t do that! And certainly, I didn’t think I’d be thirty and still be using the word “grownup.”

  That weekend, we were in Philly: Me, Jay, Mike. They were brothers, guys I had known since I was nineteen years old. I met them when I was waitressing at an underground poker club in New York City—these guys had known me since my boobs were real. Since before I had worked in the adult industry, in any capacity. Since I had still lived at home with my parents. Since before I was married, the first time. Now, whenever I had a feature-dance gig on the East Coast, I had them drive up from New York City to help me. It’s not a glamorous job, helping me on the road—it’s all staying in cheap hotels, counting dirty singles, making sure I don’t get raped during lap dances. It’s a job that pays alright, but it’s not like they needed the money. I like to tell myself they’re in it more for the intangible compensation of their old friend’s company.

  We were sitting around the table in my dressing room. Dressing room. A term I’d come to use very lightly. It’s rare that a strip club has an official room solely dedicated to housing the feature performer. There were no “green rooms” in the feature dancing world. One time, a club just put me in a spare bathroom; I sat on the toilet to strap my heels on before going onstage. Tonight, we were lucky: They had given us a nice “champagne” room to use. Nice. Another word I’d come to use lightly. If you ever get the chance to go into a champagne room with the lights on, I strongly suggest you don’t take it. It will make you question why a place like a strip club would decide on fabric upholstery.

  The guys were counting the singles I had just made onstage, while I looked at my phone while wearing nothing but a towel, my feet crossed on the table. We probably looked like a scene out of some gangster movie, only with much smaller denominations of money. I scrolled through my Twitter feed.

  “Oh shit!” I sat up, stomping my six-inch heels on the floor. “The AVN nominations are up.”

  I scanned through the list looking for my name. I found it a few times: best anal scene, best solo scene, best website...

  I couldn’t fucking believe it. Squinting my eyes, I looked at the list again—maybe I had missed something—using my finger, pointing at each name, making sure it was not mine. I did this four times before giving up.

  For the first time in five years, I was not nominated for performer of the year.

  I looked up to see that the guys were finished counting the singles.

  “Well? How’d you do?” Jay asked.

  “I’m up for a bunch,” I casually answered, not wanting to seem like I cared. “Except for performer. It’s fine though, I mean I already won it two years ago—plus, it’s not fair if a contract star gets nominated for it anyway. The other girls work way more. Like, I really don’t care,” I said way too fast.

  “Cool,” Mike answered. The guys knew me well enough to know that I was lying. That I did care. That I felt like shit. They also knew me well enough to know that discussing it would only make it worse. Pretending he needed to go do something, Mike left the room. Jay soon followed, mumbling that he was thirsty. Silently, I thanked them—I was sure my pride could not have continued the conversation further.

  I didn’t always care about the awards. My third year into porn, my date to AVN was the original Gonzo Queen herself, Jenna Haze. As we got our makeup done for the show in her hotel room, I distinctly remember being shocked at how nervous she seemed, unable to sit still in the chair—she was Jenna Haze, a huge star by then, winner of dozens of awards, one of the biggest names in porn ever.

  “I’m so nervous!” Jenna had squealed, gripping the armrests on the makeup chair. “I just want to win one. Once I win one, I’ll be fine.”

  Did she know these were just porn awards? Winning an award in porn, wasn’t that like being the tallest midget? Did it really matter so much? Without saying anything, I silently judged her as she lost cool points in my mind. It’s that classic thing about meeting your idols: They become real human beings, with real insecurities and personality flaws.

  That night, I won my first award. It was for best double penetration scene, which had been my first DP, ever. And then I won for best anal. And then best lesbian three-way. I won five awards total that night.

  And I came to understand Jenna’s love of winning.

  The next year, I was the same nervous wreck Jenna had been. I even repeated the exact phrase I had found so ridiculous twelve months ago: “I just want to win one. Once I win one, I’ll be fine.” I had tasted the fruit, I wanted more. Only, rather than fruit, it was more like an illegal controlled substance—I craved more. I was genuinely crushed when I didn’t win performer of the year, despite winning seven other awards that night, the most of any performer.

  Finally winning performer of the year the year after that was one of the best moments of my life, but it followed a nervous breakdown in my hotel room while waiting for the show to start. And the year after that, when I won a mere total of one award, my only consolation was the two cheeseburgers I ate alone, in silence, in my hotel room after the show.

  When Jay and Mike came back to the dres
sing/“champagne” room in time for my next stage show, I was still sitting in the same spot, chain-smoking. They were kind enough to not mention anything, only ordering me to get dressed to go onstage.

  The rest of the night, I was on autopilot. I went on stage, shook my ass, met fans, gave lapdances, didn’t get raped (thanks Jay and Mike!), and went back to the hotel.

  I texted Dee after I got out of the shower.

  How much longer do you think I can be in porn?

  She wrote back immediately: Are you asking ’cause we are now 30?

  Holy shit. I realized that, like everything else in my life, my version of the thirty-year-old panic attack was the porno version. Was it over for me? Was I officially a MILF now? Were people no longer interested in seeing my gaping asshole?

  What if my problem wasn’t that I wasn’t peaking yet—what if my problem was that I had peaked too soon?

  It got me to thinking that, if anything, I felt I’d done too much to be only thirty. I’d had two abortions, which was just about the most shameful thing in my life. One was perfectly excusable, every girl is entitled to it—mistakes happen, and you learn from them. But two? Come on, get your shit together, stop telling so many guys to cum in you. I’d been to jail, survived a minor opiate addiction. I’d contracted countless STDs, had more boyfriends than Lindsay Lohan, and fucked so many guys that my body count was an (extremely rough) estimate. I’d been married in Vegas (twice)! I’d been divorced once. I’d stripped, shot porn, worked in a dungeon, even hooked a couple of times. Worst of all, I’d smoked cigarettes for over ten years, and even though I said I’d quit, I was still smoking when at parties, on vacation, on set, and pretty much just around people in general. On paper, I was Patty and Selma from the—At least fifty years old, and that was being nice.

  With one question, Dee had given me the best birthday gift: my customary thirty-year-old freak-out.

  HAIKU

  Still in bed at noon

  Everyday is Saturday

  When you are a whore

  First Encounters

  I was flying home from a dance gig with my friend Bill. I call him my friend because “assistant” sounds pretentious, “roadie” sounds like I think I’m a rockstar, and “bodyguard” is ridiculous, considering he is a five-foot-three, fifty-four-year-old Chinese man (not the Kung Fu kind) in thick glasses who gets his nails painted when he comes with me for a pedicure. Also, he jerks off while wearing women’s underwear. I suppose I also call him my friend because he is. Our unlikely friendship started when I was looking around for a driver. Not that I don’t drive, but as the stereotype goes, I don’t drive well.

  “Oh, I got the perfect person for you,” my friend Dave replied when I asked him if he knew of anyone. Dave and I co-host a biweekly podcast in which we attempt to abstain from talking about anal sex, and fail every time. This is not a running gag, but a real-life objective. “His name’s Bill, he drives hookers.”

  “Are you calling me a hooker?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Whatever. I kind of am.”

  When Bill came to pick me up on his first day on the job, Dave had given him strict orders not to speak to me. It was a joke, but the kind that was half-true: I hate making pointless small talk. Yet, when I got into his car, something about his smile just invited me in.

  “Hi, I’m Bill.”

  That was all he said to me. He warmly introduced himself to my husband Toni, who had walked me out to the car in case my new driver turned out to be a weirdo rapist, but after that, Bill was silent. Silent, but not unfriendly. Something about him interested me—this man drove hookers? He was in his fifties, yet he was dressed like a teenager. I could see under the steering wheel that he wore shiny black leggings under his basketball shorts. His pinky nail was half an inch longer than the rest of his nails. With his plump face, faux Mohawk hairdo, and thick-rimmed glasses, he looked like a Chinese Chicken Little.

  “So you drive hookers?” I finally broke the silence after five minutes. What continued was an hour-long conversation on hookers versus escorts. Where escorts saw one client once in a while for a thousand dollars-plus, hookers saw as many as ten clients a day for as low as one hundred bucks per guy. They often did “in-calls,” where they rented out a motel room, churning the johns in and out all day long. As was always the case when hookers were mentioned, I was highly interested, and naturally, we hit it off.

  I used Bill as a driver when I needed one, and sometimes even when I didn’t. He became something like a friend whom I paid. He came with me to events, appearances, sets, interviews, and hung out with me like any two people in a platonic relationship. When it came time for my next feature-dance gig, I asked him if he’d like to come and roadie for me. I told him his job was to carry my suitcases, collect the dollar bills off the stage after I danced, and help me sell merchandise at the end of the night. Being a fairly easy job, which paid well for the amount of work, Bill was up for it.

  The gig went well, and we had just boarded our flight back home to LA. As Bill put our things in the overhead bin, I sat in my window seat and checked my Twitter. Scrolling as fast as I could through tweets and retweets of photos of my anus that people had posted, something caught my eye:

  You're on my flight.

  I looked up and around, but didn’t see anyone looking at me. I clicked on the profile, and it was a man named Keith. His profile photo was of a man in a grey hoodie—immediately, I realized I had passed him on my way to my seat. He was sitting down in an aisle seat, in the very same hoodie as his profile picture. I noticed him because he was handsome with stubble, and well, as anyone who knows me is aware, I’m a sucker for a man in a grey hoodie. I wrote him back.

  Hi :)

  I scanned through his profile. He seemed to have a big following, especially for a guy. What did he do? I went to his photos. He was in a wheelchair. Maybe he’s injured and in a wheelchair temporarily, I thought. I looked at the date—it was posted only a day earlier. I quickly looked through the rest of his photos, and realized this wheelchair thing was permanent. I looked back at my own profile. He had written me again.

  I'm a big fan. Follow me so I can DM you.

  I did as he said and sent him a private message.

  Hey! Following u now :)

  I went back to his profile as I waited for a reply. Yes, he was definitely full-time in a wheelchair—it seemed a good portion of his tweets were promoting events for the handicapped. I wondered what kind of wheelchair guy he was—Paraplegic? Quadriplegic? Munchausen? He wrote back.

  Come sit next to me.

  I was surprised at how direct he was. I looked next to me at Bill, who was engrossed in the free issue of SkyMall, reading it with his glasses in his hand, the magazine inches away from his face.

  Sorry, can't - I'm sitting with my friend.

  Honestly, I was glad to have an excuse to stay in my seat. I was intrigued by this hot wheelchair man, sure, but what would I do sitting next to him on a four-hour flight? It was too much time next to a stranger, however good-looking he was. Just then, the flight attendant’s voice came on, making the announcement it was time to shut our electrical devices off. I almost did just that, when I noticed I had another message from him.

  Tell your friend he can switch seats with my friend for a bit.

  I was amazed at how much he was pushing for this, and I think I liked it. But like I said, I hate small talk, and four hours was just too long for awkward conversation.

  I'll come say hi when we land, shutting off.

  I quickly typed, and put my phone away.

  Social media has been around as long as I’ve been in porn. I can’t imagine the business without it—when I shot my first scene, Myspace was still big, and I still remember fighting with my ex-boyfriend about putting him in my top eight.

  “No one wants to see that,” I would tell him, as I chose eight of my friends with the biggest breasts.

  Fast-forward eight years, and the big ones these days ar
e Twitter and Instagram. Actually—these are probably considered old platforms now; I’m sure there is something newer, hipper, more confusing out there, maybe SnapChat? For the sake of the story, let’s just say Twitter is still the hot new thing.

  As the seatbelt lights turned off and the flight attendant announced we could turn our phones back on, I took my phone out and purchased the on-air wifi, which was something I usually didn’t do out of principle. I hated the thought of not being able to disconnect for a few hours here and there. If anything, I preferred to use the time as an exercise in restraint, which was something I could always use. Once I was online, I opened Twitter and continued to look through Keith’s profile. With the same intensity Bill used to look through the latest issue of SkyMall, I looked for any signs pointing to what kind of wheelchair guy he was.

  I found it.

  He had posted a link to an interview, in which he revealed that a skydiving accident had left him a quadriplegic twelve years ago, when he was just twenty-one years old.

  Quadriplegic? I couldn’t believe it. He had looked so...normal when I passed him walking to my seat. I had to google “quadriplegic” to make sure it was the one that affected all four limbs (I’m not in porn because of my smarts). I had never fucked a man in a wheelchair before, much less one who didn’t have the use of any of his limbs. How had he tweeted me? Was it possible to lose control of your limbs while retaining control of your hands? It was a universe completely new to me, and it would be a lie to say that I didn’t immediately fantasize about him being my first wheelchair guy.

  I’ve always been a fan of first times. When I look back, all of my favorite porn scenes are the ones where I did something for the first time—my first anal scene, for instance. Or my first double penetration scene. My first gangbang. My first gangbang with double anal. My first French kiss in the fourth grade will forever be one of the sexiest moments of all time, even though it was with a nerdy Irish kid with braces who was shorter than me even on his toes. I love firsts so much that there are currently three men out in the world who all believe they were the first to penetrate me. There’s a certain rush that comes only with the first time, and then it’s lost forever once it’s over.