My First Day as a Porn Actress

Written by on 06/07/2013 in Humor, Porn & Industry

Lights, camera, action!Picture this: a scantily clad woman walks into her bedroom and begins to undress, unaware of the man watching covertly from behind the door. Taking her time, she strips off her clothes. Then she lays back, blissfully unaware of the eyes upon her, settles herself on the bed and begins to touch herself.

And that was it. My first pornographic movie. Four five minute segments, each in a different room in a different outfit, one with a sex toy; but all featuring the same basic scenario–secret voyeur watches babe play with herself, all filmed POV (point of view) as if the viewer himself was holding the camera. It all seemed a bit repetitive and not very exciting at all to me, particularly by the
fourth scene. I had never masturbated so much in one day. Yet I was assured these films were real sellers on the European market, both on DVD and for internet download. “My” film would be available within a month. More importantly, the rent was taken care of for the next few months.

I didn’t find it as hard to perform as I had thought I might. I felt quite detached, albeit with an exhibitionist thrill, as I writhed around, legs akimbo. When the cameraman/director/producer went in for in his close-up, I was just glad my beautician had given me a very thorough Brazilian.

“Beautiful,” he said admiringly, and I felt inordinately proud, deciding that I really must give said beautician a better tip next time I went in.

It was the cameraman, however, who was to make this experience memorable. A small, slight man with graying hair and a bespectacled boyish face, dressed in beige cords and a green shirt that looked far too big for him, he fitted the stereotype of an academic rather than a lecherous, sweaty porn director. (In hindsight, I can confirm that in my experience most men in the industry are by nature lecherous, although sweatiness is a matter of personal hygiene!)

I told him what I was thinking, and he smiled ruefully, said, “Well, as it happens. . .” and proceeded to tell me, as I wriggled into yet another push-up bra and see-through thong for the last scene, all about his distinguished career as an author and lecturer on various aspects of alternative religion and mythology, exactly the kind of themes that had inspired the Da Vinci Code phenomenon of recent years.

I was stunned.

“But I’ve read your books!” I cried, thoroughly bemused. I had indeed read two of his works and enjoyed them; he seemed to know his stuff and I knew he was a fairly popular writer, not at all the sort of person I would have expected to meet on the other side of the camera. The two occupations just didn’t quite fit. He confessed (I could only take him at his word) that the film company was owned by a friend of his, and he was apparently shooting the series as a “favor.”

“It’s all very surreal,” he confided. He found it surreal? At least he wasn’t naked.

Twenty minutes later, now clothed and with vibrator discarded, I found myself sitting on my sofa having a cup of English Breakfast with a best-selling author who had just shot my first porn film. I had expected the morning to bring surprises, but not of this nature. I love literature as much as I do erotica and completely forgot about my antics on camera as I listened to his stories of ancient cultures and his travels in search of them. He regaled me with tales of the world of esoteric literature, informing me about a well-known Templar historian who apparently takes part in rituals where her partner drinks her “sacred” menstrual fluid through a straw (straight from the source, as it were). I was thrilled when he offered me a signed copy of his latest book in return for my secrecy.

I was not so thrilled when, as he packed away his lights, he asked me for a blow job, because “my wife doesn’t like them.” I refused demurely, trying not to let my disappointment show–shouldn’t he be off chasing legends of the Holy Grail and uncovering ancient tombs? I showed him out, shaking my head at such blatant rudeness. Although I would later become adept at fending off horny cameramen, I couldn’t help but feel a little let down; he had seemed a genuinely nice guy.

He left looking somewhat disgruntled, and I phoned my friend in delight, after checking Google images to confirm that he was indeed the author in question. Not wanting to ruin his image, I decided not to tell her about the blow job request. It had probably been a moment of weakness, I decided, after all he had just spent the best part of an hour watching me thrashing around, legs akimbo. He would most probably regret his remark as soon as he got home.

I never did receive my signed book.


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