Succubus (Part 11)

     "What is this?" asked Jolene.
     "The band is The Jesus Lizard.  This is their album 'Head,'" I answered.
     "I've never heard anything like this in my life."
     Bekka laughed.  "We've got a shitload of music that will probably mystify you."
     We lucked out and found a space in Cyrano's small lot.  I backed the Falcon in and we got out, ignoring the stares of the two yuppies leaning against a Five-series BMW.  One of them called, "Hey man, is that your car?"
     I said, "No, it's hers," and pointed at Bekka.
     "How fast is it?"
     "I'm not sure.  I've had it up to 145, but I ran out of room to work and had to back off.  I'd want to take it to Riverside or Laguna Seca and open it up with no one else around me to find its max."

     "Wanna race?"
     "No, I wanna drink.  Why the fuck else would I be here for?"  We continued towards the door.
     Inside, three stools awaited us at the end of the bar.  I assured Bekka that I would have one Johnnie Walker and then switch to soda.  We were attracting attention, Bekka and I didn't blend in.  A punk and a slutty goth hipster.  Jolene just looked sexy, in pumps, a thigh-high skirt, and a tight blue muscle shirt.  We ordered --- two double Johnnie Walkers and a glass of white wine --- lit cigarettes, and observed our surroundings.  They were familiar to me, to an extent: we'd shot a scene from "Temporary Pleasures" in here.  However, we'd shot during the day, when things were much quieter.  I'd had to go out on the sidewalk and offer to buy drinks for every passing adult in order to make it look more crowded inside.
     The bartender returned with Jolene's wine and just one scotch.  He set the scotch down in front of Bekka, pointed at me, and said, "I need to see your ID."
     I grinned and pulled out my wallet, producing my driver's license.  I told him, "I'm flattered.  Most people think I'm older than I am.  I got high mileage."
     The bartender stared at the license, did the math, and handed it back.  "I'm not gonna have trouble out of you, am I?" he asked.
     "Only if you dig real hard for it.  I'm having the one drink and switching to sodas, I'm the designated driver for the evening.  I'm just an honest businessman escorting these two ladies for the evening."
     The bartender retrieved my Johnnie Walker and said, "What business are you in?"
     Jolene interjected, "He's a pornographer.  He's my boss."  Pointing at Bekka, she said, "Don't you recognize this young lady?"
     He considered Bekka.  "Yeah.  I've seen her in the paper.  Other places too.  Were you in Time?"
     "That's correct," said Bekka.  "You should recognize my husband here from the same article.  My stage name is Becky Page.  This is my husband, Lenny Schneider.  And this pretty thing goes by the name Missy Liscio.  She's fairly new to our happy little family and has been working a lot the past couple weeks, so we thought she might enjoy enjoy interacting with men who are wearing clothes for a while."
     "Yeah, your company is supposed to put out porn that has a level of intelligence to it.  I never liked porn that much because it was always so dumb and so badly acted.  The terrible performances always swamped the sex, I couldn't get off because I was so bugged by the stupid dialogue and lame acting.  Your stuff is better?"
     "You better believe it," I said.  "In fact, I started making porn features because I thought all porn features sucked, just like you think.  I figured, fuck it, I'm running a damn porn studio, I'll get performers who can actually act and write scripts that aren't just there to frame the sex.  It worked.  Now my wife is famous and we're both rich.  Not bad for a twenty-three year old white suburban punk."
     I sensed movement behind me and pivoted.  There were two frat boy types --- creased jeans, popped collars --- standing behind us, whispering to each other and eyeing Bekka.  I elbowed Bekka, she looked at me, I gestured with my head.  She stared back at the frat boys with her eyes too wide and a blank expression on her face.
     One of them said, "Are you really Becky Page?"
     "That would be me," Bekka answered.  "Why do you ask?"
     Both went slack-jawed.  The other one said, "You are so fucking hot."
     Bekka gave a smile I recognized: Becky Page was coming to the surface, seizing control.  Bekka/Becky said, "Well thank you!  My husband thinks so too."  She leaned against me.
     "Your....  Husband?"
     "Yes, my husband Lenny, this man here.  This is Lenny, this is Missy Liscio, and you already know I'm Becky.  So who are you, darlings?"
     The first one said, "Um, I'm Richie and this is Cal.  You and him are really married?"
     "You seem surprised," Bekka/Becky smirked.
     "Well....  Isn't that kinda weird?  You, y'know, doing what you do?  Dude, you're not bugged by your wife having sex with other dudes all the time?"
     I laughed at this.  "Hell, I hired them.  It's what Becky has been doing for as long as I've known her.  It doesn't mean anything, it's only a job, you know?"
     Cal said, "I don't think I'd be able to handle the babe I was with fucking other dudes for a living."
     Bekka/Becky pointed a sharp grin at him and said, "Okay.  You think my morals are questionable.  But I can tell by the look in your eyes that you want to fuck me.  How do you square that with your conscience?  Both me and Missy build our careers around our bodies, but like Lenny said, it's only a job.  It's performance, a form of acting.  And you can't fuck me, I love my husband."
     "They're tight," said Jolene.  "They love each other.  Becky is a lucky woman.  I know from first hand experience that Lenny eats pussy like a god, he made me come like a waterfall.  So which is your favorite movie?"
     Richie and Cal looked at each other.  I wasn't sure what they were expecting from the conversation, but this wasn't it.  Richie finally said, "I dunno, either 'Dangerous Desires' or 'Rocker Girls.'  All of her stuff is really hot....  You do porn too?  What have you been in?"
     "So far, just loops," answered Jolene.  "But I have a role in the feature we're about to start.  Lenny, if these guys wanted to see me in action, what should they buy?"
     "'Naughty Novices' one and two.  Number three has you also, but that's not out for two weeks."  For the benefit of the frat boys, I explained, "We just started the 'Naughty Novices' series.  It's all performers who have been with Inana for six months or less.  Missy has only been with us four or five weeks.  The third tape will have our newest, an eighteen year old girl named Feather, who is wise beyond her years, she's quite something."
     "Whoa, eighteen?" said Cal.  "How did you get her to work for you?"
     "She sought us out," answered Bekka/Becky.  "She's a dirty little girl.  Still in high school.  She just turned eighteen two weeks ago, had her interviews, and made her first loop on Sunday.  She'd been bugging Lenny to hire her for months, but Lenny wasn't about go to prison so some underage girl could have the world's best paying after school job.  She's a little thing, too, but she's still an anal queen.  It's almost scary watching her take one of our larger guys, but she does it with a smile.  Damn size queen brat."
     With a smile and a sudden rush of confidence, Richie said, "Hey, how would I get a job working for you?  I think I could do it."
     "A job doing what?" I asked.  "Matter of fact, I need a couple part time gaffers, light techs."
     "Naw, I want to be a porn star!"
     "Are you hung?"
     "Um, yeah, I guess.  Sure!"
     Jolene said, "One way to find out.  Here, stand next to me."
     Looking confused, Richie sidled over next to Jolene, who pulled out the front of his Levis with one hand and shoved her other hand into his pants.  She began manipulating him, to his shock and near terror.  She took a sip of wine with her free hand, a passive and slightly bored look on her face.
     "Well, that didn't take long....  He's definitely not Roach or Eddie The Jew....  Hell, he's not even Stallion....  Dale, maybe....  And he gets worked up too quick.  I can feel pre-cum.  When was the last time you came, buddy?"
     "Uhh....  This morning, in the shower.  Oh god...."
     Jolene sighed and rolled her eyes.  "Aaaand he just came.  Christ."  She pulled her hand out of his pants and carefully wiped it on his shirt.
     Bekka/Becky lazily said, "You've got way too short a fuse, Junior.  If you blow your load from Missy half-heartedly playing with your dick, you'd never survive three hours in front of the cameras with an Inana girl.  We're master technicians, we could make a statue come.  Sorry, you'd never cut it.  But look at the bright side, you can brag to your friends that a porno queen jacked you off in a bar."
     A hand landed on my shoulder.  It was attached to the bartender.  He said, "You and the ladies are leaving now.  You can't do crap like that here.  I didn't say anything sooner because I didn't want to attract any attention to what was going on, but it's time for you to go."
     I smiled and said, "If you insist.  What do I owe you?"
     "Fourteen."
     I handed him a twenty and told him to keep it.  I said, "Girls, we're being thrown out for some reason.  I don't understand it either.  Shall we?"
     "I need to wash my hands," said Jolene.
     Bekka/Becky responded, "We'll meet you out front.  You boys have a nice night....  And Junior, you might want to sit at a table until that dries some."
     The two frat boys nodded at Bekka/Becky in numb shock.  Jolene headed for the bathroom, Bekka and I headed for the door.  Standing outside lighting cigarettes, Bekka said, "I think our libertine ways around Inana are having a heavy effect on Jolene.  She can't blame alcohol, she had one glass of wine."
     "I'd never hire that dude anyway," I said.  "He makes really stupid faces when he comes."
     We hit three more bars in Del Mar.  At all four Bekka drew fanboys, so after the next one we switched tactics: Jolene would take a seat at the bar alone while Bekka and I grabbed a table or booth where we could see her.  This worked far better.  Jolene was gorgeous and sexy, but being with a celebrity put her in the shadows.  Sitting all alone at the bar, it didn't take long before some guy would come along to introduce himself.  They would talk, then Jolene would offer to introduce him to her friend and coworker, Becky Page.  Yes, the Becky Page.  Sitting right over there with her husband.  We work together.  You're familiar with what Becky Page does, right?  I have the same job.  Perhaps I should explain myself a bit better....
     Jolene collected four phone numbers that night, all from men who swore they weren't cowed by what she did for a living.  She introduced two guys to us, both of whom were happy to meed Becky Page but were still more heavily intrigued by this hottie who made porn.  She didn't seem damaged or nuts, and Becky and her husband assured them "Missy's" drug and alcohol use was recreational and rare.  All four men were sure Jolene would not be averse to going home with them, but she shot them down with chaste kisses and promises to call.
     "I'm getting practiced at explaining my job to people," said Jolene.  "This is good.  What I'm telling these guys is putting them at ease, even if they're still freaked out by the general concept.  But they are being respectful and engaging with me, I'm not detecting contempt or pity.  Wow, I'm a porn star, and my brains work.  I'll see if these guys are still fascinated with me over the next couple days."
     We ran into a little trouble at the last bar, a horse racing-themed place called The Paddock.  Bekka and I had grabbed a table and ordered our drinks when two yuppies, both drunk, shuffled over.  The first one said, "You're really Becky Page, right?"
     Bekka/Becky gave her feral smile and assured him it was true.
     "God, you are so awesome.  I got all your movies, plus some compilation stuff you're in.  What I wanted to know is what it would take to have sex with you.  One night, no holds barred."
     The other yuppie said,  "My friend here is loaded.  Anything you ask within reason, he will provide.  Who knows, you may decide you like being treated well and want to stay around.  You'd live in Rancho Santa Fe, drive a new car, country club membership...."
     Alternating her laser beam glare between the two, Bekka/Becky coolly replied, "I'm sorry, you seem to have mistaken me for a prostitute.  An expensive one, but a prostitute nonetheless.  My suggestion is that you forget any bright ideas you came up with in the last few minutes and return to your own seats.  That way you won't have to interact with my husband, here.  You wouldn't enjoy the experience."
     This prompted laughter from the yuppies.  The first one, Casanova, said, "This ugly punk is your husband?  Now I know you should take me up on my offer.  I'm a charming guy, I'll grow on you.  Lemme guess, this scumbag is probably living off the money you make.  He probably thinks being a pimp would be a step up in the world."
     I reached across the table and slapped Casanova across the face, hard.  His face betrayed shock and anger, his left cheek turning red.  I briefly considered his weaselly friend, said "What the hell," and slapped him too.  Then I sat back and considered the both of them in silence, chewing on an ice cube from my Johnnie Walker.
     Weaselly looked as though he might cry.  Casanova said, "Scumbag, you'd better just stand up and walk out of this bar while you can.  I know judo, I'll break you in half.  Get lost."
     I reached across the table and slapped him again, even harder.  Weaselly too.
     Casanova sprung out of his chair and said, "Scumbag, your fucking life is over.  I bet you don't have the balls to walk out into the parking lot with me, pussy.  I'll make you wish you were dead."
     I finally spoke.  I said,  "You are a stupid, stupid man.  Everything you say or do is stupid.  You demonstrated your stupidity by insulting a man's wife and expecting no blowback.  Now you want to go fight in the parking lot, because you know judo and you assume that will bother me.  Jesus, but you're stupid.  Fine, lead on, Stupid.  Darling, shall we?"
     "We shall," said Bekka/Becky.  "This stronzo bianco (white asshole) thinks he can buy me, but doesn't think you'll fight for your wife's honor.  Cazzo idiota."  (Fucking idiot.)
     Casanova said, "Bitch, you'll come running to me when this is over.  I'm leaving your scumbag crying on the ground, you'll see what a nothing he is.  You'll wanna be with a real man."
     Bekka/Becky cackled at this and said, "Garbage mangiare perdente bianco."  (Garbage eating white loser.)
     In the parking lot Casanova and Weaselly drifted over to an E-class Mercedes, where Casanova first removed his tie, then his dress shirt.  I stood in the middle of the lot and watched this passively, my feet a bit wider apart than normal.  Weaselly said, "Go on, kick his ass!"
     Casanova said, "I'll give you one more chance to run."
     I shrugged and gave him a placid look back.
     He trotted towards me, his hands out to grab at my jacket and attempt a throw.  I grabbed the leading hand and twisted the wrist in a near 360, pulled him forward, and kicked his legs out from underneath him.  He landed on his chest.  Grunting, Casanova sprung towards me, aiming a tackle at my knees.  I pivoted to one side, kicking him in the neck as he went past.  He barked in pain.
     Casanova ran towards me with a yell, aiming a karate chop at my neck.  I dodged, grabbing the hand as it went past and twisting it up between his shoulder blades.  I grabbed him by the neck, then turned him and ran him head-first into the grille of his own Mercedes.  He straightened up, and blood began running from his scalp onto his face.
     Panting and panicked, Casanova ran towards me swinging both fists wildly in a windmill fashion.  He did manage to clunk me in the head and shoulder while I judged aim and distance, kicking him in the balls like I was going for a fifty-yard field goal.  His mouth shot open and he began drooling, his eyes showing white all the way around.  Both hands went to cover the afflicted area.  I grabbed him by his neck and t-shirt collar and this time put him face-first into his grille.  I let go of him, letting him fall.  His nose had gotten mashed and was pouring blood.  He lie there on the ground, silently looking up at me with hatred and loathing.  I figured there had to be some kind of coup de grace.....  So I pulled out my dick and pissed on him.
     Weaselly began glancing around behind himself and I approached.  He started jogging in reverse away from me.  Bekka intercepted him and body-checked him into an Audi.  I caught up and stood in front of him, considering.  I slapped him on the right cheek and said, "You know what sucks?  You know what is total bullshit?  Your friend probably won't learn a fuckin' thing from his experience.  He'll probably just take another highly formalized martial arts course and bitch to his friends about how Becky Page is just a dumb slut who wouldn't know a good thing when she saw it.  He won't learn that good manners are the only manners, that you shouldn't fuck with people you don't know, and if you're drunk, horny, and rich, you just call an escort service, rather than trying to be a player.  Get him home, and dissuade him from doing something stupid like calling the cops over a fight he started and lost..  Am I clear?"
     I heard glass shatter.  I looked, and Casanova had found an empty beer bottle somewhere which he had shattered.  He was now rapidly staggering towards me, mayhem on his mind.  He swung the bottle.  I swerved my head out of the way and caught the wrist and upper arm.  I snapped his elbow over my knee, backwards.  Casanova screamed in pain, and I let him go.  Weaselly was turning green from the crunching sound Casanova's arm had made.
     The two began scuttling to the car.  Weaselly had to grope his friend's pockets to find the car keys.  Before they got in the car, I called "Hey" to Weaselly.  He looked up at me, wide-eyed.
     "Where are you clowns from?" I asked.
     "Rancho Santa Fe," was the answer.
     I said, "Stay out of Encinitas.  You will only find pain there, do you understand?"
     "Yes sir."  Weaselly tucked his injured friend into the car, ran to the far side, fired up, and took off.
     "Damn spoiled brat," I commented as Bekka and I watched the Mercedes fade away.
     "How so?" asked Bekka.
     "Well, shit.  He lives in Rancho Santa Fe, the Bel Air of San Diego.  He's driving an E-class Mercedes...."
     "You're forgetting, pally, that we have the money for a couple ourselves at this point."
     I replied, "Yeah, but we haven't gone and bought one, have we?  An E-class screams to the rest of the world, 'Filthy stinking rich.'  I'm happy with our hot rods.  Anyway, the dude apparently blow money left and right on frivolous things like one night stands with famous porn stars.  I've gotta wonder what his upper limit would be.  Fifty grand?  A hundred?  A hundred and a new BMW?  He didn't seem concerned.  Lastly, he looks too damn young to have made a fortune on his own.  I wonder who his family is, and if they know one of their kids is a reckless drunk."
     Bekka said, "Well, if you're right about him, the family definitely knows.  They've probably been having to bail him out of jams since he was fourteen.  Bet you anything he's never been married, but is still paying child support."
     We stepped back inside.  Jolene was drinking and chatting with a standard issue White Male wearing a checked jacket.  She saw us and waved us over.
     "Hey, where'd you go?  I turned around and you were gone."
     I shrugged and said, "We had a little bit of trouble with another customer, and he insisted that it be settled out in the parking lot.  Him and his friend have now taken off for home."
     Jolene said, "In other words, you got in a fight.  What was it about?"
     "Bekka's honor.  My honor.  You don't insinuate to another man that his wife is a prostitute, that was the big mistake.  He also called me a pimp, which I will  not put up with.  You can say a lot of things to me, but calling me a pimp guarantees the rest of your day will be going to hell.  Anyway, I slapped the two bitches a couple times, at which point Laughing Boy demands that we settle this in the parking lot.  After all, he knows judo.  I've heard that before from people, and at this point telling me you know judo is like telling me you've memorized all the listings for the first six letters in the phone book.  It may be quite a feat, but it seems really fucking useless to me.  Short answer, I hurt the guy enough he realized it was a lost cause, and him and his friend left."
     "They're headed for an emergency room," said Bekka.  "Christ Lenny, you broke his balls, probably gave him a concussion, and shattered his elbow.'
     "Yeah, well, I wasn't in the mood.  I figured the quicker I hurt the guy the sooner we'd be done."
     'All this just happened?'" asked the white guy.  "Say, it wasn't Richard Roswell, was it?  Him and his lawyer were here, getting fairly plastered, and now they seem to have gone."
     "Who's Richard Roswell?" I asked.
     "Heir to the Alcan aluminum fortune.  He's a sheltered, overgrown rich kid.  He's had too many people kissing his ass his whole life, and has never wanted for anything."
     "Does he know judo?" Bekka asked.
     "Matter of fact, yeah.  Black belt, and a bunch of trophies.  Judo competitions are very structured and formalized, like in fencing.  Why, was the guy who went against you saying he knew judo?"
     I said, "Exactly.  Kept saying he was going to kick my ass, leave me crying on the ground.  I'm still waiting.  He constantly left himself open, so I ended up doing a lot of damage to him.  I didn't want to hurt him, I just wanted him our of my face."
     The white guy laughed.  "Yeah, that sounds about right for Mr. Roswell.  Judo takes brawling and turns it into a game, with lots of structure and rules.  Being skilled at judo competitions does not mean a thing in a bar fight or punch-up.  I'm guessing you've had to throw down on a few occasions in your life."
     "Yeah.  And I'm guessing Richard Roswell has never been bloodied in his life, up until tonight.  I kinda felt bad for the guy, I felt like letting him connect once or twice so he wouldn't feel so useless.  Whatever, screw him, he's in my past.  So what are you all discussing?"
     The white guy said, "Well, I've been learning about this young lady's job.  You're aware of her, uh, career?"
     "The same career as mine," said Bekka/Becky.  "We fuck, we suck, we bust a nut, and we do it better than anyone else in the world."
     "Oh, so you really are Becky Page!  When I saw you come in, I just dismissed you as a girl with a passing resemblance and the same hairstyle.  I figured, what would Becky Page be doing in a bar in Del Mar on a Thursday night?  She's a star, she'd have more interesting things to do."
     "Even porn slut celebrities enjoy a quiet evening.  Missy here wanted to explore the local bars some, she's fairly new to the area.  She lives in Solaina Beach, Lenny and I are in Encinitas.
     "And where do you work?" asked the white guy.  "You commute to LA?"
     I said, "Our studios are in La Costa.  We're well off the beaten path for the industry, we're such iconoclasts that being someplace as random as La Costa makes sense, in a way.  Not being in LA means no rampant gossip, no constant circulation of talent, no feuds between studios, no constant pressure to produce faster and release quicker.  We do our job, and we do it extremely well, going by the reviews and sales."
     "It's just such a strange industry.  Given what you do, I'd imagine people become very cold-hearted over time, unable to connect with people.  I'd also imagine that sex would have all the interest removed from it, it would be no more interesting than driving to work."
     Bekka/Becky replied, "It's not so very strange of a business.  Porn is one of the many facets of the entertainment industry, although a lot of people won't acknowledge that facet as valid.  The methods we use to entertain people are unusual, and not many people can handle taking part in performance.  Technically, it is sex, but because of the staccato pacing of production and the lack of emotional or romantic bonding, what happens on a sound stage is not considered to be sex by the participants.  It's performance, it's acting.  Now what performers do in their own time, with their boyfriends and girlfriends and husbands and wives, that is sex.  Giggling, unscripted, rambunctious, passionate, loving sex.  No, people don't become cold-hearted because of the work.  We all have love in our lives.  If we didn't know how to love in real life, we couldn't pretend to love in front of a video camera.
     "So far as sex, as sex, goes, there is still separation.  To be frank, every physical fantasy you've ever had will be fulfilled within the space of a year in this industry.  But generally speaking, the person or people you're interacting with don't care about making you feel good, they're interested in what looks good on camera.  Inana is an exception to this: Inana girls always look fantastic during performance, and also provide supreme physical pleasure.  An Inana girl could make a statue come.  If someone appears to be in a state of sexual ecstasy in one of our videos, they're only partially faking it.  Just like love, we know physical passion in our real lives, so we can fake it at work."
     Jolene said, "Given the travesty that was my sex life during my marriage, I admit to enjoying the physical aspects of performance much more than other girls do.  I'm sure I'll adjust and calm down, not to mention having a lover in my private life who satisfies me.  For now, I'm quite happy being with men like Roach or Chip or even Vince.  Just the stamina they have is a godsend."
     The white guy asked, "So how long are performers, uh, sexually engaged for at once?"
     "Two and a half to three hours," grinned Bekka/Becky.  "Keep in mind, though, it's not nonstop.  There are routine interruptions to move around lights and cameras.  We'll take a smoke break in the middle of shooting a scene.  And shooting a fuck scene for a feature is much more complex, there can be a three to five minute break in your action then.  The fluffer earns her money on those days."
     I said to Jolene, "Remember, you've got two fuck scenes in the new feature.  A straight one on one, and a three-way girl-on-girl.  You've been getting off making loops, and that's great, but you may be feeling frustrated shooting the feature.  Remember, there's no shame in getting yourself off after we're done shooting a scene if you want or need to.  Just find someplace marginally private and rub one out."
     Bekka/Becky said, "Sometimes I'll get worked up shooting a scene.  I'm lucky, I just go downstairs and sexually assault my husband."
     "You seem so....  objective when it comes to sex.  Are you all really so blasé?" asked the white guy.
     "We love sex.  At the same time, sexual activity, in the form of performance, is all-encompassing in our day-to-day lives.  Since sexual activity permeates our very existence, we do have a matter-of-fact attitude about it.  Sex is to our work day what flour is to a baker's.  It's not that we wouldn't like to wax eloquent about sex, we just don't have the time."
     Jolene put her hand on the white guy's arm and said, "Look.  I know I will become jaded about what I do at work.  However, I don't think I'd become jaded in my personal life.  I look around and see Lenny and Bekka, or Roach and Dawn, or Eddie and Elspeth, and it gives me hope that I won't.  These are all couples whose lives revolve around producing pornography, but they are very much in love and have very physical relationships."
     Bekka/Becky said, "Nine years in the industry, three years with Lenny.  I'm still a very horny person.  Lenny can get me randy as a goat just by kissing my neck and squeezing my ass.  At this point, if I'm naked on a sound stage, I'm in total professional mode.  I'll be engaging in activities I've engaged in a hundred times before, and it's my job as an actress and performer to make them look good.  My own physical pleasure means nothing, it's not even in my mind.  But afterward I'll go down to Lenny's office and sit in his lap so he can more easily molest me.  He'll get me fired up, then fuck my brains out right on his desk.  Lenny can make me come so hard I can't remember my own name.  No, I'm not blasé about sex."
     The white guy said, "So, there is passion and romance in the lives of porn stars.  But apparently you only date or marry each other.  Why is that?"
     I said, "Think about all the things we've explained to you about life in the porn industry.  You're ahead of the game, you understand why things are the way they are, how things work, our motivations, our feelings.  That's a lot for most people to handle, especially when it's being explained by someone you're developing a romantic interest in.  Porn people date within the industry because we don't have to make all the damn explanations then.  I'm constantly asked how Becky and I can even be married, since she's having sex with other men (and women) all the time.  We try to explain that it's only performance, it means nothing, but I don't think it really sinks in.  All they know is that my wife routinely engages is sexual acts with men that aren't me, so there's no way our marriage could possibly work.  People in the industry don't give it a second thought.  Lenny and Becky's marriage works just fine, there is no conflict.  People in the industry don't see any source of conflict, Becky's just doing her job.  No biggie."
     "Oh, the stories I could tell you about ex-boyfriends," said Bekka/Becky.  "I was convinced for a while that all relationships end in disaster.  A common thread was resentment.  The guy would have a minor resentment about my career, and instead of getting it out in the open so it could be taken care of, they'd hide it and let it fester.  It could be anything: our disparity in income, my access to free drugs, his own insecurity regarding the, ahem, stature of the studs I worked with versus his own, whatever.  It would finally come down to the guy demanding I quit my job, I've gotta choose between him or my career.  As you see, career always won out.  I'd have dated someone at Inana if there had been anyone viable before Lenny and I got together.  Everyone on crew was either attached or out of my age range.  Yes, there were single male performers, and they were even nice guys, but they were all dumber than a bag of hammers.  So I'd go out with a new guy.  For the first six weeks he's totally copacetic with me having sex as a career.  The next six weeks are dead silent.  The three weeks after that are ones of passive-aggressive comments.  And finally comes the explosion: how dare I make the money I do working sixteen hour weeks.  My perspective of sex is warped because of the huge penises I am around.  And of course, he's no longer going to share me with other men, so I need to either go back to school or find a normal job, otherwise he'll drop me like a bad habit, and won't I be sorry then?
     "Lenny came on as our still photographer, and him and I became friends.  At this point I was so gun-shy of relationships I was convinced I'd be a spinster after leaving the industry.  Lenny was an awesome guy, and there was no way I would date him, because I knew I'd just get hurt again.  He confessed that he had a crush on me, and I completely shut him down.  He let it drop.  Keep in mind that we're sleeping together, we have the keys to each other's apartments, and we spend a lot of time holding hands.  Nope, not dating, just friends, nothing to see here.  I knew I was in love with Lenny deep down, but refused to admit it, least of all to myself.  It took him getting shot for me to admit to myself that I was in love with a punk rocker six years my junior.
     "Sometimes I do wonder if Lenny and I would have gotten together if one of us hadn't worked for Inana.  What if I was a porn slut and Lenny was still just some criminal from El Cajon?  Would our paths have ever crossed?  Or if he was running the studio but I'd never become a performer, I'd remained Bekka Lucchesi, a nice college girl from Encinitas?  Would I have been creeped out by his career?  But we got lucky.  Our careers parallel each other, and we understand what the other person does.  And both our careers are very, very hard to explain to random citizens.  Like guys in bars who only wanted to talk up a hot babe sitting by herself, and has gotten a crash course in the psychology of fuck film performers."
     The white guy said, "Well, I believe there is no such thing as useless information.  Somehow, what I've learned sitting here would come in useful."
     "Possibly sooner, rather than later," Bekka/Becky grinned.  "Like if you gave your phone number to a woman who works in porn that you met in a bar somewhere, you'd know she isn't a slut, or damaged, or insane, she's just a woman with a very unusual acting job.   And you could find it much easier to accept her as she is."
     "I believe you're right," he said.  He pulled a pen from somewhere and wrote a name and phone number on the back of a cardboard coaster, then handed it to Jolene.  He said, "Missy, it was a pleasure meeting you.  I would be honored if you gave me a call sometime."
     "So what do you do, anyway?" I asked.
     "I run the off-track betting parlor at the Del Mar racetrack.  I've always been good with numbers, and I'm kind of a savant when it comes to predicting odds.  I enjoy it, the job keeps me involved."
     Jolene said, "We've got gambling, we've got pornography....  We just need a loan shark and we could start a brand new organized crime syndicate.  And here, let me give you my number, too....  There.  I'd like some fresh air, would you like to join me?"  Jolene and the white guy stepped out the front door.
     I got another Coke, Bekka having Johnnie Walker.  It was a work night, and the bar was winding down.  The bartender said to Bekka, "Hey, you really are Becky Page.  Could I get an autograph?  It'll go up on the wall with the others."
     Bekka was presented with a blank sheet of typing paper.  She pulled out her Sharpie and wrote, "Bottoms up -- that's my job!  XXX  Kisses, Becky Page."  She handed the paper back, which the bartender stuck up with thumbtacks.
     He came back and said, "So your friend is new in porn, huh?  Do you think she'll make it?"
     I answered, "If she wasn't cut out for the job, she would have washed out in the interview process.  It's not easy to work for our studio, you have to be talented in a lot of ways.  Jol--- Missy is talented, she's got a decent run of a career ahead of her if she wants it."
     "Think she'll get to be as famous as Becky, here?"
     "A better question would be if she wants to be as famous as Becky Page.  The words 'rich' and 'famous' are connected, unfortunately.  We would have been happy with the wealth, leaving the notoriety aside.  We miss being able to go to the mall food court in complete anonymity."
     Bekka hopped off her school and went out the front door.  She came back a minute later with a pleased smile on her face.
     "They're making out.  Think she'll take him home with her?"  Bekka/Becky asked.
     I shook my head.  "Doubt it.  I don't think that's her style, she's just baiting the hook at the moment.  She's got a morning shoot tomorrow, plus her weekly blood draw, so she'll want to get her rest.  And if she was just horned up and looking to get off, she knows she'll be working with Roach tomorrow, who seems to have taken it upon himself to make all my female performers come on camera."
     The bartender horned in and said, "Doesn't that always happen to women in porn?  They sure act like it."
     Bekka and I both burst out laughing.  I said, "The screams, moans, yells, and religious epithets you hear in most porn is just so much lame histrionic bullshit.  If I was with a woman who made that noise, I'd put her in a sleeper hold until I was done."
     Bekka/Becky winked at the bartender and said, "Now, at Inana, our studio, we have real talent.  You can't tell the difference between the real ones and the fake ones.  I'd say I fake orgasm an average of seven times a week, and I've kept people fooled for nine years.  Let's see, nine times seven times fifty-two....  3,276 faked orgasms in my career.  And I can count the number of times I've actually come on camera with two hands and have my thumbs left over."
     "Hey!  Girls do so make noises like in porn!" said the bartender.  "I've been with a few."
     Bekka/Becky gave him a pitying look and said, "It was nice of them to give you a floor show, but that's all it was.  Would you like to see a faked real orgasm?"
     "Uh, sure...."
     It was a pure Becky Page performance, taking more than three minutes.  She started with some basic accelerated breathing, then began building from there.  Panting, guttural moans (starting quietly and increasing), gasps, hums, and vocalization slowly built to a crescendo of a loud sustained moan....  Followed by panting, as she caught her breath.  Through this Becky twitched, shuddered, alternately bugged her eyes  out and squeezed them shut, and threw her head back.  She raised a mist of sweat on her forehead, and held an amazed smile during her breath-catching.  Then she looked the bartender in the eye and said, "That's how it's done, son."
     The rest of the bar burst into applause.  Bekka/Becky turned, smiled, and bowed deeply.  When the applause died down, she said, "Thank you, thank you.  Normally I don't mix work with leisure time, but I had to illustrate a point to someone, which is that anyone can fake it, if sufficiently motivated."
     I threw in my own two cents, announcing, "She doesn't sound like that at all when she comes.  She makes a lot of squeaking sounds when she's building up to it, and swears at me."  Bekka punched me in the arm.