I could hardly contain myself. Shooting up from my seat on the floor, I stood up, kicked off my heels, and ran to the door. There was no one standing outside their studio, not even taking a smoke break. I ran back to Brent. “How do you know? Where are they? Did you see them actually shooting?” I couldn’t ask my questions fast enough.
“I went to pay Laura the studio fee, and they were there. Rocky’s shooting his first bottom scene!”
What? Everything changed in one moment. Rocky, better known to me as Luke, was my ex-boyfriend. We were even briefly engaged for a month or two. I knew he was shooting gay scenes now, but never so physically close to me. The situation went from level highly entertaining to awkward in a flash.
Luke always denied being gay when we were together, but he liked to be fucked in the ass with a strapon. It’s actually what drew me toward him in the first place. Physically, I suppose he looked like he could swing either way. Tall, muscular, not quite handsome, but passable as an overall good-looking dude. We worked together on a movie and exchanged numbers upon wrapping. I didn’t know about his fetish at the time, nor was I really considering calling him, ever. I guess I was just being nice. Totally the opposite of my type, Luke was too delicate. Clean-shaven, manicured nails, perfect tan. The authenticity of his nose was questionable, and his teeth were undoubtedly too white to be natural. Originally a good country boy from North Carolina, soft-spoken and well mannered. He didn’t command anything of me, which is something I usually needed in a man.
I’ve never been attracted to men who are anything but super-masculine. Things like body hair, mismatching clothes, and messy table manners are on the Pros side of the list. Men who act like men are hot—this new breed of “metrosexuals,” with their Botoxed faces and tinted hair, did nothing for me.
Even the girls I find to be the hottest are the ones who look like men. With their short hair and taped-down boobs in wifebeaters, there’s something so erotic about a girl acting like a guy. The whole overcompensated masculine energy thing is sexy.
I’ve often wondered if this just means I’m straight.
The truth is, I find women incredibly intimidating. When I see a sexy woman, right away I envision her looking at me in disgust as I approach her.
“Don’t you think you’re a little out of your league?” She’d laugh and go call a friend to make fun of me.
Women are beautiful, and I love pleasing them. Often, during a lesbian scene, I’ll make a competition out of the sex. I like to see how good I can make her feel, how many times I can make her cum. I try to sync us in a way that we are riding the same sexual wave. The more resistant she is, the more fun my game becomes.
Fucking the shit out of a woman is enjoyable, but it’s mashed potatoes—the delicious extra something on the side. The main dish has to be a man. I don’t see myself ever dating a woman, or feeling a deep emotional connection to a woman I’m having sex with, either. Whenever I’m asked what my “type” is for females, I give different answers.
“Skinny with big boobs.”
“The thicker the better.”
“Teenaged Puerto Ricans with big asses.”
I don’t know why I feel this immense pressure to give a fake answer, when secretly my answer is, “I don’t have a type. I like any girl that likes me.”
After we exchanged numbers, Luke texted me incessantly. I only replied when I was bored—I gave him short answers, just enough to keep him interested. Nothing is more of a turnoff than when someone you’re not into texts you. Of course, you could always just tell them you’re uninterested, or ignore them altogether until they go away. Somewhere deep down, though, the attention is appreciated. At any given time, I always have a rotation of at least three guys, who I know I’ll never give a chance to, but I keep them just interested enough so they’ll stroke my ego from time to time. Call me insecure, but . . . Whatever works.
Months went by, and he was still texting me. My phone went off one day just as I was about to enter a tanning bed. I looked down. It was Luke. Again. I opened the message, thinking about what a pain in my ass he was, and not the good kind.
“Do u like using a strapon on a guy?”
The message caught me off guard. I delayed going into the tanning bed to reply.
“Yah. Y?”
“I saw a cover of u w a big black strapon. I like that too. But not on camera.”
Whoa. This guy was finally starting to interest me. I would never have guessed he was the type. It all made sense now—that was why he was so desperate. He’s a fucking sub.
“That’s hot : )”
I had never worn a strapon in my personal life. For work, yes . . . but never just for fun. I was intrigued.
“Send me ur address. I’m coming over tonight to rape u. U better be ready. If u shit on my cock I’m leaving.”
It was a date.
The last time I had fucked a guy with a strapon was for a scene in Strap Attack 7. Jeremy was submissive in his personal life, and he was eager for me to fuck him. It was something I had never done on camera, but I had done it numerous times at the dungeon—I assumed it would be easy. I was wrong.
“Open up to me please, Asa. I can’t see the penetration.”
“Move your hand, you’re blocking his ass.”
“Try to balance on your left leg so your hips open up; I can’t see the dildo.”
“Energy, Asa, I need more energy!”
By the end of the scene, my legs were on fire. At least five times, I needed to cut to take a break. I work out every day, eat healthy, and don’t drink or party. Being the man in the scene was more work than I had realized. I was dripping sweat from constantly thrusting back and forth, and my back hurt from all the crazy positions I had to do in order for the camera to catch the action. Guys have to do all this while keeping their dicks hard? I had a newfound appreciation for male performers that day; as a girl, on our worst day, we can just throw some lube in, lie there, and get manhandled. The scene will still look good, as long as we can hold still in a few positions, and occasionally throw in a generic phrase like “Your cock is so hard in me,” or “My pussy is so wet for you.”
This shoot was good for me—it was both humbling and educational.
Personally, I don’t really like to be fucked with a strapon. Dildos have never really done much for me; when I’m with a girl, I like for her to use what she already has. The hardness and rubberiness of a dildo make it feel unauthentic and painful. It’s almost like the strapon puts too much distance between us. I like for us to feel close—fingers, hands, mouth, feet, knees, whatever. Sex with a girl, for me, is not about dominance or submission; rather, more about just feeling good.
On the other hand, when I’m the one wearing a strapon, something comes over me. I get on a high. It’s something like being drunk with power—the things I say, the things I demand of my partner, are things I wouldn’t dare dream of voicing in my normal state. With a strapon, I feel invincible. I feel like I could take over the world.
Once the strapon comes off, I feel embarrassed. If I felt that kind of power from simply putting a fake penis on, it’s frightening to imagine the kind of corruption I’d really be capable of if I was someday in a real position of power. Why did I say those things? Who did I think I was?
That first night with Luke, I went on my usual power trip.
“You stupid faggot, you’re so pathetic, aren’t you? That’s why you couldn’t stop calling me. You had to beg for me to come fuck your ass just so you could see me.”
It was a rush I hadn’t felt since my domming