Insatiable. Asa Akira

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      2

      Hooking

      I’ve hooked twice. Well, technically three times—but twice was with the same guy.

      So I don’t know if it counts.

      The first time, I went with Laila. Fresh out of a long, drain-circler of a relationship, it was as if she had all of a sudden stormed into the escorting business with some kind of a vengeance. She even did the whole personal phone/business phone thing. Every time I texted her in the past month, it seemed she was either on her way to a job, or just leaving a job.

      “This guy Frederick from Malibu has been asking about you. He’s, like, so fuckin’ rich, girl.” We were lying side by side in the sauna at our local Korean spa, relaxing after an anal threeway scene. The Korean spa is our secret little getaway. No one from porn knows about it, and on its worst day it’s filled with Korean and Russian housewives who keep to themselves. This particular day was a weekday, and the sauna was empty except for us. Not that it would have made a difference if there were other people around. Laila is loud, crude, and gives a fuck about no one. Just that morning she had mortifyingly screamed across the line at a very crowded Starbucks, “Fuck Imodium, I drink coffee before anal!”

      Normal.

      It’s inevitable. You can only show the inside of your asshole to the world for so long before your filter ceases to exist.

      I wondered why she was bringing this guy up to me. She knew I wasn’t into the escorting thing. This guy Frederick-from-Malibu was notorious for seeing girls in porn, a big-time CEO of a huge, very commercial, very family-friendly company.

      “A few people hit me up about him. He sounds gross.” It was true. He had been trying to get other girls to refer him to me since my early days in porn. “There’s no way.”

      “He’s super-nice and not gross at all. He’ll pay you whatever you want.”

      “Tell him five thousand dollars for half an hour.” Thinking this was a ridiculous deal no one would agree to, I laid a damp towel over my face and we proceeded to talk shit about the potential new girl in our agency. Spiegler was thinking of taking on a new Asian girl. As it stood, Laila and I were the only Asian girls on his roster. We wanted to keep it that way. He only represents twenty-five girls at a time, and so three of them being Asian would seriously dilute our market.

      That night, Laila texted me. “He’s in. When can you do it?”

      Having no knowledge whatsoever regarding the world of hooking, yet feeling spontaneous, intrigued, and admittedly a little bored, I agreed to see Frederick-from-Malibu for half an hour the next evening, under one condition—that Laila come with me. I had no moral issue against escorting, just an irrational fear (. . . is it, though??) of being murdered. Two girls could take on one guy, right? Besides, the prospect of making my double penetration (one dick in the butt, one in the pussy) rate in a mere thirty minutes (without even putting anything in my ass) was too tempting. It was the length of a television show episode. Not even that long, if it were on HBO or Showtime. I persuaded myself to give it a try.

      Laila drove. “Girl, it’s so easy. You’re gonna wonder why you didn’t do this before.”

      “I don’t know. What if he tries to pull something? I brought Mace. But it’s fucking pink and I’ve never used it. Does Mace expire?”

      “Shut up. We’re gonna get there, have condom sex for ten minutes, shower, and leave. It’s gonna be the easiest money you ever made.”

      Condom sex. Shit. I was so wrapped up in thinking of ways to hide my Mace within arm’s reach during the actual fucking, I had totally forgotten to pack condoms. Rule number one as a working girl: Bring. Fucking. Condoms.

      We weren’t even there yet, and I already had one strike in the hooker game.

      Luckily, Laila was more prepared than me. We got to the hotel, valeted the car, and took a fancy elevator up to the room. This is when things started getting real for me. Or maybe more like surreal. A million thoughts started racing through my head. Mainly, that if someone recognized us, they would for certain know what we were up to. And out us on the Internet. Or worse, call the cops. I turned my head down as much as I could without seeming too weird and silently cursed Laila for talking so damn loud. As we walked through the hallway I recognized the mirrors on the wall from various girls’ self-taken cellphone photos on their Twitter profiles.

      When Frederick opened the door, the first thing I noticed was that he was black. I had been hearing about this guy for years, and in my mind, he was white. Not like it really mattered. It’s like that weird sensation when you pick up a drink thinking it’s gonna be water, and as the liquid hits your tongue you realize it’s Coca-Cola. Like everything you knew to be true a second ago is now questionable.

      Frederick was wearing a white robe, I guessed with probably nothing underneath. He was much better-looking than I had expected. Handsome, even. Not old.

      Not young, but not old.

      He flashed a mouth full of expensive-looking, well-done veneers.

      “I’ve been waiting to meet you. Come in.”

      When we entered the room, I saw he had a porno of mine playing on the TV. I was dressed up in what was porn’s version of a schoolgirl outfit, and fucking my teacher for extra credit. Right away I noticed how horrible my skin looked on the huge screen.

      I already regretted coming.

      “I laid out some outfits for you girls in the bathroom,” Frederick said.

      Laila was clearly feeling more comfortable than me, making herself at home on the floor in front of the minibar. She got her drink, and we went into the bathroom. Just like he said, there were four schoolgirl uniforms laid out on the counter for us to choose from. They looked freshly dry cleaned, but definitely not new. Which girls had worn these outfits before me? Surely, I knew at least a few of them.

      I chose a cropped collared shirt that showed off my stomach, and a red plaid skirt that came with a matching tie of the same pattern. I opted for the baggy Japanese-style leg warmer socks rather than the stockings. My shoes, I had brought. Laila picked a similar outfit in blue, only she went for the stockings. After dressing in silence, Laila put my hand in hers. We walked out together like this, hand in hand. I never asked her if she did this to comfort me, СКАЧАТЬ