Insatiable: Porn — A Love Story Read online

  Grove Press

  New York

  Copyright © 2014 by Asa Akira

  Jacket design and artwork (c) David Choe Author photograph by Van Style

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review. Scanning, uploading, and electronic distribution of this book or the facilitation of such without the permission of the publisher is prohibited. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated. Any member of educational institutions wishing to photocopy part or all of the work for classroom use, or anthology, should send inquiries to Grove/Atlantic, Inc., 154 West 14th Street, New York, NY 10011 or [email protected].

  Published simultaneously in Canada

  Printed in the United States of America

  ISBN: 978-0-8021-2259-9

  eBook ISBN: 978-0-8021-9259-2

  Grove Press

  an imprint of Grove/Atlantic, Inc.

  154 West 14th Street

  New York, NY 10011

  Distributed by Publishers Group West

  www.groveatlantic.com

  To my parents. But please don’t read it.

  Contents

  Author’s Note

  1 The Perfect Scene

  2 Hooking

  Letter to Mom

  Haiku

  3 Penis Envy

  4 Nutcracker Suite

  5 Liar Liar

  Haiku

  6 Crime and Punishment

  7 Art of the Blowbang

  8 Girls

  Haiku

  9 Florida

  Shit Pornstars Say

  10 No Sex in the Champagne Room

  Haiku

  11 Glory

  12 Rule of Twos

  Haiku

  13 Giving Thanks

  Haiku

  14 Craigslist

  14½ Dee

  Diary

  15 The Other End of the Stick

  A Breakup Letter

  Haiku

  16 Food Porn

  17 Nerves

  Letter to My Future Child

  18 ONE

  Acknowledgments

  Author’s Note

  I started this book hoping to shed a different light on the industry I love so much. Not to say every day is sunshine and flowers, but I don’t feel a healthy, honest voice of someone currently looking from the inside out has been heard.

  While writing, the book morphed into something more. I’ve always questioned why I am the way I am. I had a normal upbringing. My parents are loving, kind, and present. I have no mental disorders. Why am I so sexual? Why do I insist on publicizing my most intimate moments?

  I can’t say that I’ve found an answer—but writing this book has oddly brought me to peace with myself. At the end of the day, I do feel my sexual cravings as a woman are normal, and should be accepted as such by society. It’s bullshit that a man who fucks a thousand women is considered a badass, while a woman doing the same thing is shunned. I’m not ashamed that I’ve worked at an S&M dungeon, stripped, escorted, or that I currently have sex for money every day. On the contrary, I’m proud of myself for having the guts to indulge in my desires.

  The world has seen every fold of my most private body parts, and yet, I feel this book is my most exposing venture yet. I hope you enjoy.

  P.S. Some (but not all) of the names I use in the book have been changed.

  1

  The Perfect Scene

  “Rolling and . . . action.”

  Bobby was going down on Monica. I stood behind the camera, watching. Narrowing his eyes at me, Bobby buried his face in Monica’s pussy as he took his cock out to stroke. It was growing harder by the second, and my pussy grew wetter in unison, as if the two were synced. I watched Monica arch her back every time Bobby sucked on her clit and brought her closer to orgasm.

  “Come on, fucking come,” I mentally whispered. It would be my cue to join them.

  I was playing a hooker today. Bobby and Monica were playing a curious couple who hired me. There’s something oddly self-referential about playing a hooker in a porno—I was getting paid to portray a woman who got paid to have sex. And also, of course, to have sex. It’s like a Russian dolls of sex workers.

  As Monica’s body twitched, I walked in front of the camera and cupped my hand over her mouth. I gave her one last chance to gasp for air before clamping down on her face, and rubbed her clit hard as Bobby stuck his dick in her. No matter how aggressively she turned and twisted, I wouldn’t let her go, and I wouldn’t stop rubbing. She continued orgasming for another ten seconds, her muffled screams occasionally escaping through the cracks in my fingers, until I let her free to breathe. As she came down from the intensity, I kissed my way up from her knee to her toes, which curled when Bobby hit a good spot with his cock.

  Bobby’s cock is great for porn. Big, straight, all one color. It was shiny from the juice coming out of Monica’s pussy, making it look as if Monica was giving birth to it. I dived down to suck the slime off, and as I put it back inside her pussy, I spit on my finger and slid it slowly into her asshole. She yelled for more and I stuck another one in. I watched Bobby’s dick go in and out of her pussy as I slid my fingers in and out of her ass. I could feel the camera over my shoulder, catching a close-up of the mesmerizing motion.

  We made her come again, and I pushed Bobby out of the frame as I climbed on top of Monica to kiss her, then farther up her body until my pussy was on her face. She quickly took my cue to eat me out until I came, collapsing onto my back. Aware of the camera closing in on my face, I eye-fucked Bobby’s cock and licked my lips. It wasn’t hard to portray—I needed dick. I enjoy getting my pussy eaten as much as the next girl, but when there’s a cock in the picture, it feels kind of like going to a steak house and ordering the fish.

  Like cock-hungry animals, Monica and I took turns riding Bobby’s dick for the following three positions. Finally, as Monica pushed her ass back on Bobby, I got down and licked Bobby’s ass. The Euro boys like that. Bobby moaned, and I could tell he was close to cumming. I kept licking, until he finally reached around and pulled me away from his ass by my hair. He grabbed Monica by the head as well, and placed us both on our knees in front of him and came on our faces, and in our mouths. With the cum still dripping off my face, Bobby dragged me up by my arm and bent me over the sofa in the back, and fucked me until I reached another orgasm. I dropped to my knees and crawled to Monica. I spit the remaining cum from my mouth to her pussy. Using my knee to push my hand, my fingers stuffed the cum into her. I fucked her like that until she crossed her eyes and lost it one last time. We made out as our hearts slowed down from racing, and the director yelled “Cut!”

  Once in a great while, it happens: the Perfect Scene. It’s when everyone, both performers and crew, are all completely synced in energy. Every position, every transition flows organically. The performers lose themselves sexually, yet are fully aware of the camera at all times; the penetration is always on display. The lighting is impeccable, no weird shadows or flares. Animalistic, fluids everywhere, sweat, spit, squirt; the energy is at 100 percent the entire thirty-five minutes, with no cuts. Perhaps a crazy position is invented; standing reverse scissors against a spiral staircase.

  You recognize it’s happening about halfway through, and once the guy releases a healthy pop shot and the scene is finished, the whole team acknowledges it. The excitement in the room is unmistakable, and everyone’s vo
ices are at least a pitch higher than before the shoot started.

  “Holy shit, great fucking scene!” the director will exclaim.

  “I actually got a boner!” jaded cameraman number two will joke.

  “That was one of my top ten scenes ever,” I’ll declare.

  It feels something like just having done a first line of coke together, and everyone wants to talk at once and pat each other on the back for their respective role in the production. It’s a high, and every scene we shoot, it’s that feeling we are chasing.

  A porn set is kind of like Vegas: What happens there, stays there. I always try to make as genuine a connection as possible. From the moment I walk on to the set, everything is dedicated to making the scene better. I get there on time. I laugh at all the jokes. I find something about my partner for the day that I like, whether it be sense of humor, muscular arm, musky scent, whatever. I pay attention to what they like, and try to exaggerate that. When we start having sex, I think about the cameras around us, capturing our sex for countless men to watch and jerk off.

  At the risk of sounding overly dramatic, almost every time I shoot a sex scene, I fall a little bit in love. It’s the only way I can describe it. Not necessarily with my partner, but just in general. With the situation. In love with being watched. In love with being on display. In love with being the center of attention, for those precious thirty-five minutes. Many people say they disconnect themselves when they have porno sex; I’m the opposite. I’m more present than ever. I try to take in everything and let it turn me on more. Rather than numb myself, I take advantage of the situation and take in as much as I can. A producer set this up for me—to have sex with one of the top talents in the world, in front of a camera, giving me this opportunity to turn the world on; why would I remove myself? Why would I try to mentally put myself anywhere but here? I look into my partners’ eyes, and try to portray how much I want them. I tell them how much I like the way they fuck me. I show them how desperate I am for them to feel the same.

  Then the guy shoots his load, or the girl will cum on my fingers one last time, the camera cuts, we take a shower, collect our checks, and it’s on with the rest of the day.

  My very first scene, I took a bus from New York’s Port Authority station to Gina Lynn’s house in an Amish town in Pennsylvania, and worked for a measly five hundred dollars. When I got on that bus, I had a plan. I would do porn for two years, get it out of my system, save money, and open up a yoga studio.

  Fast-forward close to six years, and I’m still in the business. I can’t imagine leaving right now. I’m still on my “high,” and I don’t want to come down. Porn has shaped me, is shaping me, into a woman I had always hoped I would be. I’ve become more confident, more empowered, more sure of myself than I’ve ever been. It’s a job, but I’m happy to do it every day. There’s nothing else I’d rather be doing. I wish I could freeze time and live in this moment forever. I know the clock is ticking. I know soon I’ll be too old for this business, and it will be my time to move on to something else.

  Legendary pornstar Julia Ann, who’s been in the business longer than I’ve probably been fucking, once told me a story I’ll never forget.

  “I was watching an interview of myself from ten years ago. It was in the behind-the-scenes footage.”

  “Hmm.”

  “I turned to my costar, Janine, and told her, ‘If I’m still doing porn at thirty, I’m a fuckin’ loser!’ We laughed.”

  Julia Ann is forty-four now. She’s found success in other ventures. She’s celebrated as a makeup artist and runs her own animal rescue business. She probably has more than enough to retire on.

  But she hasn’t left porn.

  In this way, I feel close to her.

  2

  Hooking

  I’ve hooked twice. Well, technically three times—but twice was with the same guy.

  So I don’t know if it counts.

  The first time, I went with Laila. Fresh out of a long, drain-circler of a relationship, it was as if she had all of a sudden stormed into the escorting business with some kind of a vengeance. She even did the whole personal phone/business phone thing. Every time I texted her in the past month, it seemed she was either on her way to a job, or just leaving a job.

  “This guy Frederick from Malibu has been asking about you. He’s, like, so fuckin’ rich, girl.” We were lying side by side in the sauna at our local Korean spa, relaxing after an anal threeway scene. The Korean spa is our secret little getaway. No one from porn knows about it, and on its worst day it’s filled with Korean and Russian housewives who keep to themselves. This particular day was a weekday, and the sauna was empty except for us. Not that it would have made a difference if there were other people around. Laila is loud, crude, and gives a fuck about no one. Just that morning she had mortifyingly screamed across the line at a very crowded Starbucks, “Fuck Imodium, I drink coffee before anal!”

  Normal.

  It’s inevitable. You can only show the inside of your asshole to the world for so long before your filter ceases to exist.

  I wondered why she was bringing this guy up to me. She knew I wasn’t into the escorting thing. This guy Frederick-from-Malibu was notorious for seeing girls in porn, a big-time CEO of a huge, very commercial, very family-friendly company.

  “A few people hit me up about him. He sounds gross.” It was true. He had been trying to get other girls to refer him to me since my early days in porn. “There’s no way.”

  “He’s super-nice and not gross at all. He’ll pay you whatever you want.”

  “Tell him five thousand dollars for half an hour.” Thinking this was a ridiculous deal no one would agree to, I laid a damp towel over my face and we proceeded to talk shit about the potential new girl in our agency. Spiegler was thinking of taking on a new Asian girl. As it stood, Laila and I were the only Asian girls on his roster. We wanted to keep it that way. He only represents twenty-five girls at a time, and so three of them being Asian would seriously dilute our market.

  That night, Laila texted me. “He’s in. When can you do it?”

  Having no knowledge whatsoever regarding the world of hooking, yet feeling spontaneous, intrigued, and admittedly a little bored, I agreed to see Frederick-from-Malibu for half an hour the next evening, under one condition—that Laila come with me. I had no moral issue against escorting, just an irrational fear (. . . is it, though??) of being murdered. Two girls could take on one guy, right? Besides, the prospect of making my double penetration (one dick in the butt, one in the pussy) rate in a mere thirty minutes (without even putting anything in my ass) was too tempting. It was the length of a television show episode. Not even that long, if it were on HBO or Showtime. I persuaded myself to give it a try.

  Laila drove. “Girl, it’s so easy. You’re gonna wonder why you didn’t do this before.”

  “I don’t know. What if he tries to pull something? I brought Mace. But it’s fucking pink and I’ve never used it. Does Mace expire?”

  “Shut up. We’re gonna get there, have condom sex for ten minutes, shower, and leave. It’s gonna be the easiest money you ever made.”

  Condom sex. Shit. I was so wrapped up in thinking of ways to hide my Mace within arm’s reach during the actual fucking, I had totally forgotten to pack condoms. Rule number one as a working girl: Bring. Fucking. Condoms.

  We weren’t even there yet, and I already had one strike in the hooker game.

  Luckily, Laila was more prepared than me. We got to the hotel, valeted the car, and took a fancy elevator up to the room. This is when things started getting real for me. Or maybe more like surreal. A million thoughts started racing through my head. Mainly, that if someone recognized us, they would for certain know what we were up to. And out us on the Internet. Or worse, call the cops. I turned my head down as much as I could without seeming too weird and silently cursed Laila for talking so damn loud. As we walked through the hallway I recognized the mirrors on the wall from various girls’ self-taken c
ellphone photos on their Twitter profiles.

  When Frederick opened the door, the first thing I noticed was that he was black. I had been hearing about this guy for years, and in my mind, he was white. Not like it really mattered. It’s like that weird sensation when you pick up a drink thinking it’s gonna be water, and as the liquid hits your tongue you realize it’s Coca-Cola. Like everything you knew to be true a second ago is now questionable.

  Frederick was wearing a white robe, I guessed with probably nothing underneath. He was much better-looking than I had expected. Handsome, even. Not old.

  Not young, but not old.

  He flashed a mouth full of expensive-looking, well-done veneers.

  “I’ve been waiting to meet you. Come in.”

  When we entered the room, I saw he had a porno of mine playing on the TV. I was dressed up in what was porn’s version of a schoolgirl outfit, and fucking my teacher for extra credit. Right away I noticed how horrible my skin looked on the huge screen.

  I already regretted coming.

  “I laid out some outfits for you girls in the bathroom,” Frederick said.

  Laila was clearly feeling more comfortable than me, making herself at home on the floor in front of the minibar. She got her drink, and we went into the bathroom. Just like he said, there were four schoolgirl uniforms laid out on the counter for us to choose from. They looked freshly dry cleaned, but definitely not new. Which girls had worn these outfits before me? Surely, I knew at least a few of them.

  I chose a cropped collared shirt that showed off my stomach, and a red plaid skirt that came with a matching tie of the same pattern. I opted for the baggy Japanese-style leg warmer socks rather than the stockings. My shoes, I had brought. Laila picked a similar outfit in blue, only she went for the stockings. After dressing in silence, Laila put my hand in hers. We walked out together like this, hand in hand. I never asked her if she did this to comfort me, or as a part of the act. Either way, it was sweet.

  The porno was still on the screen, but it wasn’t my scene anymore. “Teacher, you wanted to see us? Is this about our recent tardiness?” Laila is a fucking pro.