“Can’t I have a break?” Sharon Phillips, a 23-year-old porn actress, asked the director on site. She had just finished a scene with two men and, considering it lasted over an hour, she was exhausted. Her vaginal area ached and her throat burned from all the positions they, the men on and off camera, put her through. She looked at the director from the table she was sitting at and asked him again, “Rob, can I get a break?” The burly director looked at her for a second then shook his head. “You’ll get your break after the next scene,” he mumbled.
She sighed. She wanted to beg for a little shut eye but if she did she risked her job. She didn’t want that. She had to make a living somehow. After all, they were paying her well: ten thousand U.S. dollars for the day. When they called her up, they said today would be a ‘group sex’ day: threesomes and more if they felt she was ready. But of course, they would tell her to perform in more scenes. She was a veteran after all, having lasted more than 3 years in the porn industry.
But Sharon just wanted to go home. She sipped a bit from the plastic water bottle in her hands but yelped in pain when the water went down her throat. It really hurts, she thought to herself. She put her head down on the table. The idea that maybe she was infected with an STI crossed her mind. She closed her eyes and thought about Toby, one of the men from the morning threesome who was rumored to have gonorrhea.
“Cindy Pink,” a voice called out. Sharon’s ‘porn name’. She hated it but the customers loved it. “Yes?” she looked up and saw the new director for the scene, a middle-aged, but handsome man. He looked at her fake breasts with his big lustful eyes. Almost instantly, she shifted uncomfortably in her seat. She was still cautious of older men looking at her in the way her own father did when she was a child.
“My male actors are waiting for you in Room 8,” he finally said. Sharon held back a sigh. “Can I get something for my throat, first? It hurts like hell.”
“I only got an hour with you. Just suck it up.” He grinned like a fox. She tiredly stood up, ignoring his suggestive innuendo, and stepped into the hallway. She laughed a little. The moans that came from the closed doors were as fake as her breasts. Maybe Natasha’s performing today, she hoped.
She arrived at Room Eight. She turned the knob and found six men conversing with each other on a couch. “No,” she shook her head, “I’m not doing this right now.” She couldn’t believe it. Six guys? She was too tired to even think about what they were going to make her do.
One of them, a slim white man, stood up with a predatory grin and said, “Don’t worry about it, Cindy. We’ll play nice.” The guys laughed as they pointed to the cuffs and blindfolds on the prop table. This was apparently her specialty but she wasn’t excited. In fact, she was sick to her stomach.
She ran out of the room and into the downstairs bathroom. She puked everything she ate that morning which wasn’t much but it still felt like hell. Closing the door behind her, she looked at herself in the mirror and wept.
“It’s just for today,” the hopeful Sharon cried with the mascara fading away. Then someone knocked on the door and thus continued her work day.