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Get Off My Back!

There are the ladies who’ll use their abdominal plumbing to make $7,000 helping a couple make a baby, and there are the girls who’ll use their vaginas to make $7,000 fucking a bunch of other girls for a porno.

by Liz Armstrong
Sep 1 2009, 12:00am

There are the ladies who’ll use their abdominal plumbing to make $7,000 helping a couple make a baby, and there are the girls who’ll use their vaginas to make $7,000 fucking a bunch of other girls for a porno. Both are long shots in terms of realistic scenarios and equally as weird and dirty, but the former situation involves injecting foreign hormones for months while the latter just means dealing with them for a few hours. As a cash-poor person with few hang-ups when it came to sex, I went with the quick option.

Through an ad on the internet, where all great ideas are born, a gentleman said he was collecting a group of classy girls to help produce a sex video for a wealthy jet-setter he referred to then (and at all times thereafter) as “The German.” The German was going to pay each lady involved $7,000 to perform acts of love on one another in an indeterminate professional set with big lights and cameras with angles and stuff.

Shit, it was most likely a scam, but whatever. In the squeak of a chance that it was actually real, that wasn’t so bad. And besides, I had poked around in girls enough (though certainly with no prowess, nor for prolonged amounts of time) to know that I really liked doing it. So I took a photo of myself in a short turquoise polyester kimono and red lipstick, poised in a suggestive way against my lavender bedroom wall, a coy hint of labia just peeking out beneath the hemline. I emailed that as my headshot, along with a note about how I was comfortable with women and had worked in the sex industry before, so this was right up my alley.

I heard back right away. I don’t remember the guy’s name, so I am just going to call him the director. He told me how hot I was and that I was in for sure. He just had to collect a few more girls of my caliber and then he’d get back to me.

To speed the process along I decided to ask the lady I’d considered my on-off girlfriend for a couple of years, even though we both had on-off boyfriends too, if she’d like to join me in this enterprise. Why not share the probably-imaginary-but-maybe-not wealth? Though I do believe there was some degree of genuine mutual love between this girl and me, she wasn’t gay and I was still denying that I was, so not a lot got done in the fucking department. Though we’d had real sex once or twice, it didn’t last long and we were both drunk. The most intimate act we’d really ever committed was kissing while lifting up our shirts to lightly rub the fuzz on our bellies together. But so what, we could totally do a hardcore porn together with a bunch of strangers.

I told the director I had another hot girl for him. He replied that before he could tell her yes, he wanted to make sure she and I had “chemistry.” I thought that was kind of bullshit, but honestly, I was curious about that as well. So we all met up at my apartment, where she and I kissed and undressed each other like old pros. I was ecstatic to finally get to touch her while sober, even if it had to come at the expense of an audience of one bald black man dressed for a Ralph Lauren linen safari. That was the only time I ever heard her orgasm—or fake it—whichever was the case.

Afterward, the director declared that we seemed genuine and had passed the test, and that now we should go talk business over beers and french fries. The situation was beyond surreal at this point—we’d just fucked, like really fucked, for the first time in two years of knowing each other, and it was in front of a stranger—so we were like, “Sure, yeah, drinks and food with you seems perfectly natural,” as if from there on out the director was to be part of our relationship.

He got us psyched with mumbo-jumbo about contracts and exclusivity and branding our names (I decided I was going to steal as my porn moniker the birth name of this one totally uptight, stuck-up, snot-faced virgin cunt who’d been giving me a hard time, just so that any time someone googled her name they’d think she was a filthy lesbian). And then he nonchalantly tried offering us $150 each to go back to my apartment and eat us out simultaneously. We decided that wasn’t the most professional move on his part, but we politely declined and moved forward to the next phase of the film.

A week or so later we were going to meet all the other girls the director had chosen for The German. I had my period, and though I’ve since had girlfriends who were cool with the old tampon cottontail action, I didn’t think strangers would want in on that. So I didn’t bother shaving or trimming because this was going to be our trial run, just a sort of meet-’n’-greet casual gangbang so we could see which girls got along and who preferred what. I decided I’d just take top duties and not expect any receiving, and therefore who’d care if I was a little furry down there?

We walked into the room and the director introduced me to the group of girls gathered on the two double beds as the “star” of the show. I don’t know why he did that—there was clearly one real porn chick there with vanilla-frosted everything (eyelids, fingertips, hair, cheekbones… she seriously glinted white frost like a miniature chalet in a Christmas scene), tawny hair, caramel skin, and tits a-bursting from a camisole. “This is what I’m dealing with?” she announced with a sneer. She cracked her gum, snatched up her tiny Louis Vuitton bag, and left. We all dismissed her as a complete bitch, though clearly she was the only pro with even a little common sense in the bunch.

The rest of the girls were fake-tanned and crispy-haired, except for the one buff black woman in the military who “had a husband but wanted to check out what it’d be like to get with girls.” Yeah, right. One orange-skinned lady had driven all the way from Michigan to join the film—but she’d shown up an hour early, thanks to the time difference, and was so nervous she’d already been hitting the Apple Pucker, our proffered libation for the evening, pretty hard. She was heavily slurring her words by the time we played our get-to-know-one-another game of spin the bottle.

Usually when you play this game, the bottle lands on someone and you kiss her. It’s fucking simple. But the director kept butting in with “suggestions,” like, “Hey, take her shirt off and squirt this can of whipped cream I have right here on her nipples.”

After he did this a few times I got really annoyed. He’d given us a long, sincere talk about how this was supposed to be a friendly and no-pressure environment where we would just check out how we felt and go wherever felt natural. And if nothing happened, nothing happened—no big deal. “Hey,” I exploded. “I thought we were supposed to just be getting to know each other here. We don’t really need your help.” That’s when he flipped his gourd and boomed at me that he was the director, not me, and if I didn’t shut my fucking mouth I might just end up ruining it for everyone.

The girls shot me the dirtiest looks I’d received since ninth-grade PE, when I told this tough little acne-faced peroxide-blond girl with claw bangs that she looked like Beavis and got my ass kicked in the locker room. So I shrunk myself down to useless-slut size and just licked some nipples like I was told.

Sorry to take a drastic shortcut here, but I honestly don’t remember how we all ended up naked and paired off. I was teamed up with a sturdy lass with blond stripes in her hair who had a big black tribal tattoo of her ex-girlfriend’s name across her uterus. “My baby died in a car crash,” she said wistfully, patting the permanent abdominal memorial, shaking her head at how Father Time always takes the good ones first.

We quickly negotiated that I’d be taking care of business, and the next thing I knew we were both crouched on the rough carpet, she on all fours in front of my face and bucking herself up to my mouth. I closed my eyes and went for it. I had no idea where my girlfriend was or who she was with, and I didn’t really want to find out.

I could hear giggles and whispers and little sucking sounds all around the room. After a couple of minutes the real noises started: some overenthusiastic moans, most likely faked and insincere, and then small squirts of air from right in front of me. Queefs I can ignore—they happen, whatever—but these were coming from one hole north of my costar’s vagina. They smelled terrible, like we were having ass sex even though we weren’t, and they only got more exuberant with time.

Meanwhile, the director was walking around the room, offering tips and making comments. He stopped at our little tableau and said approvingly, “Wow, this is so real.” It felt a little fucked-up to be validated by this asshole, but mostly I was proud of myself. I’d been rejected by real lesbians a bunch of times, and here I was, hanging with the big dogs. Sweet.

About ten minutes into it, the director called a time-out. Apparently the girl from Michigan had thrown up midpassion and subsequently passed out. Time to take a break and evaluate how it was all going.

From across the room my girlfriend motioned to me that she was done and wanted to get the hell out of there. I explained that I thought we’d proved ourselves sufficiently, thank you, ladies, and good night. They all gave us a look like “Where do you think you’re going?” We ignored the weird vibe, threw our clothes on quickly, and ran out.

As soon as we left I heard them all whooping with laughter. I put my ear to the door and listened. “That girl looked like a mangy dog!” Someone was hollering. “Why didn’t she shave? God that was sick!”

I was hurt. I had just eaten this nasty ho out for ten whole minutes while she farted in my face and I didn’t say a word, and these girls, who grow hair too, were making fun of my bush? My girlfriend pulled me away from the door before I could knock on it and cause a scene.

That was the last time I saw my girlfriend. She sent me an email the next day, like, “Wow, that was wild.” The next message she sent said she was traumatized and never wanted to talk to me again. The director told me that by leaving early I’d behaved in an unprofessional manner and that The German would not tolerate such transgression. So there, the possibility of appearing in a porn video had temporarily smashed my dignity and self-esteem and ruined a relationship forever. I guess that’s basically what it’s supposed to do. But I felt proud and confident that I could take all the nasty shit that comes with having sex with women.

Now… who wants to go out for a burrito and fuck?