Interview with a Porn Star

By: Jason Luke


The girl came from behind the tinted glass doors, out into the bright sunshine. She was naked. She had short blonde hair, a flawless tan, and breasts that were made impossibly perfect by surgery.

She came across to the recliner where I sat and stood over me, her slim teenager figure blocking out the mid-morning sun that was burning through the L.A. smog.

She cleared her throat to get my attention and there was a folded newspaper in one of her hands. She smiled sweetly. We had spent the night before together. Her name was Candy… or maybe Mandy.

She stood at attention for an instant and cleared her throat.

“Pisces,” she said the word like it was an announcement, then began shuffling from foot to foot because the pavers around the swimming pool had baked hot. “You’ve never been shy about speaking your mind, but for the next few days, it’s going to come even more easily – and others will seem to be antagonistic. Since you love surprises, be ready for anything, from phone calls to unexpected visits to invitations to travel. You’re always up for this sort of thing, but life won’t be smooth.”

The girl lowered the paper and her face re-appeared, still smiling.

“You’ve got good stars, Rick,” she declared.

I ignored her. “What time is it?”

“After eleven,” she said. “Why?”

I sat upright, swung my feet to the ground. “Because I have a reporter coming to interview me in less than an hour,” I said.

The girl backed off a step, but her face became alight with mischief. She reached out and rubbed the front of my jeans boldly, her hand tracing the thick swell of my cock. I felt myself leap and pulse instinctively within the grip of her fingers. “Well, that still gives us plenty of time…”

I smiled a smile I didn’t feel. I was hung-over. “Maybe some other time,” I said blankly. “I’ll call you, Candy.”

The girl pouted with the spoiled expression of a child as I walked away. “My name’s Brandy!” she called after me.

* * *

Chapter 1.

The knock was timid, almost reluctant. I fumbled with the buttons on the front of my shirt and cast a final quick glance around the living area, then opened the door, smiling.

“Hello,” I said. “I’m Rick Cassidy.”

The woman extended a hand. Her fingers were long and delicate, the nails polished and carefully manicured. I noticed a ring on one finger: a slim silver band with a tiny stone set into it.

The woman smiled nervously. She was older than me – maybe thirty-five. She had long dark hair, tied in neat braid so that the plait hung down between her shoulder blades. She was expensively dressed in a dark grey skirt and matching jacket over the top of a white blouse, distorted in its shape by the press of her breasts.

Her skin was pale, her figure slim. Her legs were long in sheer nylon, the heels making her appear a couple of inches taller.

She moved with a kind of anxious strain.

She smiled politely. Her eyes were sparkling green, with tiny flecks like gold around the edge of her iris. She was watching me intently with an expression I couldn’t read. Maybe it was amusement, or maybe cool derision.

Or maybe it was a combination of both.

“Hello,” she said, in a voice that was husky and cultivated. “My name is Connie Wright from ‘Infinity’ magazine. I’m here for the interview.”

I held the door open wide and ushered her into the cool of the house. She stood in the entry for a moment like a real estate agent inspecting a property. She turned to me and smiled. “It’s a beautiful home you have,” she said.

I smiled again but shook my head. The house was perched high in the hills overlooking the city below – but it wasn’t mine.

“I’m only renting it for the next week,” I explained. “The house belongs to a film producer friend of mine. I’m only making use of it until I finish my publicity commitments. Next week I fly back home.”

The journalist looked politely surprised. “Oh? So where in the world do you call home?”

“Europe,” I explained. “I have a property in France.”

The woman drifted across the living room, her eyes taking in the expensive furnishings, the priceless artworks on the walls, and then a litter of empty bottles standing like soldiers on the kitchen counter. “France?”

I nodded. “I have a home there, and I’ve also built extensive film sets and production facilities,” I explained. “And it suits my work. A lot of the actresses I use in my films are based in Europe, so it made sense to relocate there for filming.”

The woman looked intrigued. “But you’re an American, right?”

I smiled. “Born and bred,” I confirmed. “I’m a Texan boy.”

We stood there for a long moment in an awkward silence, as though – now that all the polite niceties had been completed – there was nothing left to say.

“Would you like to start the interview right away?” I asked, “Or would you like to see the rest of the house first?”

The woman had a handbag hung from a strap over her shoulder. She set it on a chair in the corner of the room and smiled again, her expression still filled with fluttering nerves. “I’d love to see the rest of the house,” she said.