“Basically, my professor wouldn’t even hear my reasoning as to why women might actually choose to be filmed in this way. The more I thought about it, the more I felt how shortsighted she was. Anyway, for her there’s only one way to be feminist. In her eyes, if I date an athlete or feel empathy toward women who believe the best solution for them is pornography, then I’m not a feminist. But she’s wrong; for some women, it may very well be their only choice.”
A round of cheers broke out in my apartment.
“You go, girl,” Chantae called out, and the twins punched their fists into the air.
After a few hours of talking, several more pots of coffee, and more than a few tears, the women said their good-byes and filed out.
Sarina kissed me on the cheek as we stood in the doorway, and I hugged her tight.
“Thanks,” I whispered.
“No, thank you.”
I gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Have fun tonight with your little guy.”
Part of me didn’t want her to go. I wanted to sit on my bed and ask her about my situation with Blane. Was it serious or casual? What did she think he wanted?
And more importantly, was I being a fool?
She reached out to squeeze my arm. “Hey, babe . . . whatever’s on your mind, put it to rest. And you know, if you don’t want to make the movies, don’t. That’s the whole point of this project, right? The power of choice. A feminist is someone who exercises that power.”
“You’re pretty smart, Ri. You should write the book.” I smiled and shooed her out the door.
Leaning against the door after I closed it behind her, I realized Sarina had hit me where it hurt. I was writing about choice. Except, these women had no other choice, but me? I guess I sort of did. I was working on my education and once I had it, would be qualified for something more than the adult-film industry. At least, I thought so.
Maybe I would quit the movie-making part, and would be no worse for the wear. And if I did, maybe I could call my dad and borrow some money?
I tossed the idea around in my head while I jumped in the shower and got ready for my date, or whatever it was. Buddy time? Buddy fuck? Maybe.
There were so many maybes, but that was also part of having choices. I could choose to have fun with Blane or not.
I decided to go with what was behind Door A.
Fun.
Catie
My apartment had never seen so much action when my doorbell rang for the second time in one day. This time, two-hundred-plus pounds of steel stood on the other side, and it wasn’t Superman.
But close.
“Hi.”
I answered the door while shoving my arms in my coat, and then stuck a deep purple beret on my head. I was in my usual outfit—leggings, cami, off-the-shoulder sweater, hoop earrings, and lined boots. Blane looked delectable in a long-sleeved black T-shirt, worn jeans, an open leather jacket, his ever-present sweatband, and Timberlands. He only affirmed my choice to have fun.
When would I ever have the chance to do this again?
Never.
I was hard up and he was desperate. This was my only chance.
“What’s happening down there?” Blane teased.
He winked at me, and I pretended to punch him in the gut. He feigned being hurt so he could bend over, and then he tossed me over his shoulder and spun me around.
“Put me down!” I shouted. “I’m heavy.”
“Just showing you what it’s like up here. And no, you’re not heavy.” He pinched my ass and set me down. “Ready?”
“Yep, let’s blow this joint.”
When he said, “I see you’re bringing your filthy mouth along tonight,” I giggled like a schoolgirl. Giggled!
“And I see you went all out with the sweatband tonight,” I teased him.
“Can’t take it off. No can do, lady.”
He shifted it up a notch on his head, and his eyes crinkled just a tad. It was the sexiest thing I’d ever seen, better than the first porn we watched. Taking a deep breath, I calmed my hormones.
We left my apartment and Blane grabbed my hand. At the bottom of the stairs, Mr. Southern Gentleman held the door open and tossed his arm around me when we stepped outside.
“Shit, it’s cold!” I exclaimed.
He squeezed my shoulder. “You may have to warm this boy up later.”
Rock music came to life as soon as he started up the pickup.
“Sorry, I was jamming on my way over, getting my confidence on.”
I smirked at him. “Oh, I’m so sure you needed that.”
We drove toward College Avenue, but didn’t turn.
“Where are we going?” I asked as butterflies the size of pterodactyls flew around inside my belly.
“Geno’s.”
“Really? For Italian? I’ve never been, but I’ve always wanted to try.” A warm feeling that couldn’t be more girlie or gooey ran through my veins.
“Me too. It sounds pretty damn good, and I’m in season, so I can eat.”
“You know my dad owns a small Italian restaurant in New Jersey. I told you, right?”
He nodded. “Yeah, and I thought this would remind you of home. I know you’re sort of a daddy’s girl.”
“Am not,” I protested with a smile.
White puffs of air formed from our breath, and I rubbed my hands to keep them warm.
“Should I turn the heat up? I had it down because the truck was cold.” Without waiting for my answer, he flicked a dial on the dash.
After a few beats of silence, I asked, “What did you do today?”
“Team meeting, light practice, watched tape, played Xbox. You know, all in a day’s work.”
“Ha! I bet.”