I’m not ready for them. I’m not ready for any of this.
I open the door, about to give an excuse to stall, but before I can say anything, LaRue’s ushering me back to the set. “Everything okay, Dev?”
I’m not sure that he’s really interested in my answer, and I get it. It’s his money we’re burning with every minute the camera isn’t rolling. He’s a good guy, though, and I think he’d genuinely want to know that I’m having issues.
So I decide to tell him. “Actually,” and then LaRue’s phone starts buzzing in his pocket.
“Excuse me,” he says as he pulls it out to look at the screen. He clicks the talk button saying, “I’m sorry, I’ve got to take this. Jerry, hi!” Cell to his ear, LaRue makes his way through the naked women in the kitchen and steps outside on the back lanai, closing the sliding door behind him.
With his boss gone, the director, who has yet to introduce himself, gets more assertive. “Okay, Devi, babe. Drop the robe, will ya, so we can set light levels. Debs tried to step in for you, but you’re darker than her.”
It’s not a racist comment, yet he sounds like a douche when he says it. Possibly because he’s telling me to take my clothes off in the same breath. Yes, I’m comfortable naked, but typically the directors I work with still respect that I’m a person, not just a body. They’re courteous and nurturing, and conscious of what I need to feel safe while performing.
Maybe this is just the way mainstream porn works, though. Maybe I really am as na?ve as Raven suggested I was.
At the thought of ultra-experienced Raven, I undo my belt and shed the robe.
“Nice,” the director says with a wink. He continues to chat with me while the bearded guy checks the light levels against my skin. “When the camera rolls, you’ll be gathering these dishes. Bruce will come in behind you and pull off the robe. The dishes are plastic so it’s okay if you drop them. Bruce and I have worked through the choreography, so you just let him lead.”
I throw a glance toward Bruce who’s staring at me while Debs is fluffing his cock. So he’ll be hard when the scene starts. That means he won’t need time to get aroused, and since we’ve already nixed the undressing, I’m afraid foreplay is going to be cut all together.
The idea makes me uncomfortable. “I’d rather know the sequence for myself. Could you go over it, please?”
The director shakes his head curtly. “If you wanted to know the sequence, you should have been to the set on time. Okay, everyone, we’re ready to shoot.”
As I tie the belt of my robe again, Bruce zips up his jeans and gives me a predatory grin. “Go ahead and make it tight, sweetheart. It’s not going to stop me.”
And then I realize—I can’t.
I can’t do this.
I can’t tune out the warning bells in my head. I can’t dismiss this sexist environment. I can’t pretend I feel safe on this set. And I can’t have sex with Bruce Madden.
And even if Logan will always be fucking other people, and even though I don’t know if I can handle that, I do know with a fair amount of certainty that a good part of the reason I can’t have sex with this caveman alpha in front of me is Logan.
So when the director calls places, I shake my head, and without an apology, I quit.
15
The director yells behind me as I run from the room. “You can’t quit! You’re already here. You’re already naked. Just do the fuck—”
I make it to the office and slam the door. The director’s voice turns into muffled noise, and I let out a sigh of relief.
It’s not like me to make emotional or spur-of-the-moment decisions, but I feel justified. The list of reasons I can’t do this scene is comprehensive and rational:
1. I don’t feel comfortable on this set.
2. I don’t feel safe on this set.
3. The director refused to explain what my performance partner would do to me in the scene.
4. I don’t trust my partner.
But as logical and sensible as I am about this, as clearly as I can state my complaints, I’m lying to myself if I don’t admit that the biggest reason for quitting is Logan. The other reasons just make it easier to follow through with my heart on this one.
Footsteps outside the office spur me into action. Eventually someone will come after me, and I’d prefer to be clothed and ready to leave when they do. I head to the desk where I piled my belongings when I stripped earlier.
The door opens as soon as I move from it. I peer over my shoulder to find Bruce. Gritting my teeth, I pretend his presence irritates me rather than makes me nervous. “I’m getting dressed in here.”
Ignoring the hint, he enters the room. “That’s a shame.”
“I’m asking you not to come in here.” I step into my panties and pull them up under my robe, wanting desperately to be dressed.