But, Jesus, last night, knowing we were doing something so “wrong,” so naughty—it about blew my mind. And then Logan actually did blow my mind. Over and over again, with the sex and the talk of making it real, and the way he was super cool with my mom, and taking me to an art show based on constellations! And then telling me he wants to try to be my boyfriend—whatever is going on between us is magical and amazing and big, and I’m really into it.
But I have doubts too. I can’t figure out if they’re based in my head or my heart, but they’re definitely there. I’ve tried to rationalize through it and haven’t gotten very far. On the one hand, he makes porn for a living. On the other, that doesn’t mean he’s necessarily a playboy—he was with Raven for three years, after all. But their breakup is still new. So maybe I’m his rebound girl. Or maybe I’m the girl he was really looking for when he started dating her. Or maybe he’s like this with everyone. Maybe what we have between us is nothing special.
Or maybe it is. Maybe he is. Maybe I am. He sure makes it feel like I am.
I could probably spend an entire lunar synodic cycle trying to figure it out and still not be any closer to knowing.
And that’s probably best. Because I admire Logan’s skills, and I, as a viewer of his work, love believing that he’s into the women he fucks as much as it looks like he is.
But as the woman he fucked last night? As the woman whom he’s calling his sort-of girlfriend? As the woman who slept with his arms tucked snugly around her? As the woman who’s developing very real, very intense feelings for him?
Yeah, I’m not thinking about that either.
I drop my robe and, naked now, do a quick inspection of my bikini area, making sure everything is nice and groomed before donning the white cotton panties that the director chose from the handful I brought as options. I pair it with a baby-blue tank top, no bra, then I pull my hair into two pigtails. “How do I look?”
Logan balances the camera on the edge of the sink, aiming it so that it will still catch us in the frame. “Come here,” he says, grabbing the hem of my tank to tug me to him. “You look so fucking hot, it’s killing me.” He presses my hand against his bulge to prove it.
Then he kisses me—sweetly but hungrily. It’s a short kiss, yet I’m flushed when he pulls away. He gives me a stupid grin. “Lick some ass.”
I want to ask if it bothers him that I’m about to get off with someone else. I want to ask if it bothers him that I let girls make me come. I want to ask if it will bother him when, later, Bruce Madden makes me come.
But I don’t, partly because he still doesn’t know about my scene this afternoon with Hagen’s studio, and partly—well, mostly—because I don’t want to hear that the long and the short answer to my questions are both “no.”
* * *
There’s lots of kissing in Lynne Femke’s lesbian porn. Though I do a variety of heat levels, Lynne’s tend to be the sweeter scenes.
“You’re just so curvy and soft,” the Swedish director told me once. “I could spend hours watching women touch you.”
So it’s no surprise when today Lynne’s direction calls for an extensive make-out session. “Lots of breast play, please. Then, Kendi, I want you to fuck Devi with your fingers.” She shows us the position she wants us to be in for the climax—literal climax—and then we’re ready to shoot.
Logan has his camera packed away now and is sitting by himself on a folding chair in the corner of the room. He wants to stay out of the way; as if I’ll forget he’s there if he’s farther from me.
I’m certain I won’t be able to forget. He’s the kind of guy that’s unforgettable.
But, to my surprise, I’m really not as distracted by him as I thought I’d be. He’s there, and I’m constantly aware of that, but I’m good at my job, good at focusing on the person in front of me.
Kendi’s a pro, too. We run quickly through the cheesy dialogue that sets up the scene—two college girls who have been assigned to be roommates. It’s our first night together in the dorm, and Kendi’s character, the returning student in the scenario, has taken it upon herself to teach my character how to…well, how to “get fucked by a girl.”
Admittedly, I’m not that great of an actress. If I were, I’d probably be performing in a completely different kind of film. My lack of skill doesn’t bother me—porn isn’t about acting. It’s about providing just enough visual and verbal cues to establish a fantasy and then genuinely focusing on the other person.
Figuring out how to turn someone on is like figuring out a math equation. How much of this will equal this? How many kisses before her breath gets shallow? How many flicks of my thumb over her nipple before it’s hard? How many strokes of her clit before her thighs start to tense?