Double Take: A Leading Man Romance (3 page)

But just as soon as I’ve gotten through to her, Rob turns and calls out for her. “Hey, kid! Can you come here for a minute?” and it’s like I never got through her exterior in the first place. Everything in her expression changes and she’s like a puppy at his heels. She at least has the decency to shoot me an apologetic glance before she’s off.

I finally take a bite of the food I’ve been macerating with my fork, but it tastes bland. I’m watching Kylie as I mentally rehearse my lines for the upcoming scene:
I want more in this life. More than this room. More than hope and excuses and more than my bullshit principles. I want you.

I’m home.
Thank God
.

It’s been a long day, and I’ve had Brett Buckhurst in my head the entire time. I hate that he approached me, and I hate myself even more for giving in and letting him talk to me. I gave into the conversation. I let him
charm
me. And I let him make me smile.

I think that’s the part that really pisses me off about this entire thing. The last thing I want is to be quantitative for actors. If I start directing my own films (
when
, I remind myself), I’m not going to give into vapid declarations and charms from the talent. I’m going to control
them
, not the other way around.

And yet Brett played me like he probably plays every woman in his life. He’s the expert, and now, I’m no better than Karen.
Why don’t you give him a blowjob while you’re at it, Kylie? Jesus Christ.

I’m berating myself as I drop my bag in the foyer, toss my glasses on the table there, and shuffle into my studio apartment. It’s small, a whopping 525-square feet, but it’s all I really need. I’ve got a kitchen, a bathroom to the side of it, and a room with an accordion-style wooden divider to separate my bed from the couch.

I shrug my clothes off as I go directly to the bathroom, leaving them in a puddle trail. I turn on the shower, close the door to keep in the steam, and pause.

I look in the full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door, tilting my head, studying myself. As I push Brett Buckhurst from my mind, I wonder what it was that made Rob say I was
fucking sexy
. I know, logically, he wasn’t talking about me, but even if it
was
an innocent statement, he was taking in my aesthetic. I have to have
something
he likes.

I run my hands over my breasts. They aren’t impressively large, but they’re enough to fill my hands, and my nipples harden as my thumbs rake over them. I imagine Rob coming up behind me, pressing his body flush against mine. I close my eyes so I can see it more clearly, and it’s like he’s there with me.

I’m naked, but he’s still wearing his weathered jeans. I can feel every muscle, and he’s hard. The bulge of his cock is pressed against my ass. He lowers his head to kiss my bare shoulder and takes some of the skin into his mouth.

His hand moves lower, palm flat against my belly (my hand moves in emulation), until he reaches the soft hair at my pussy. In my ear he demands,
Tell me you want it
. I whisper easily, “I want it.”

He sucks the skin of my neck and I’m trembling suddenly. Just when I think I’ll go mad, his finger slips into my passion-slick folds, tracing a circle against my clit.

My legs are turning into jelly, and I’m jerking into my own hand as steam fills up the bathroom, making me sweat. I put a hand behind me to steady myself on the bathroom sink, but it’s cold and only serves to remind me that it’s just a fantasy. Rob isn’t there. My head is swimming and I’m unsatisfied as I collect myself enough to climb into the shower and wash off the day.

I’m rinsing shampoo out of my hair, my entire body throbbing with unsatisfied need, when I hear Brett’s words, as though he was in the shower with me.
It’s just porn. There’s nothing wrong with watching it
.

I consider this for a few moments as everything seems to slow down.

Women watch porn. Of course they do. It’s a multibillion-dollar industry, and it can’t be financed by men alone. Besides, there are movies out there catered
to
women, aren’t there? It’s just another form of film. I know exactly what this is building up to as I make excuses in advance.

Have you seen any of my work?

I’ve never watched porn before. It’s always seemed so dirty and lewd, with women who faked it and, at their core, seemed to have major daddy issues. It seems like the stark opposite of everything that I stand for, even if I
am
a progressive woman. But then again…

Isn’t film in itself faking it? We’re showing romance and triumphs and wars and peace, and it’s all put on display by actors and actresses who step in and pretend to be people they aren’t.

It can’t hurt, I decide, as I step out of the shower and wrap a towel around my chest. My hair is dripping wet, but I know I’ll lose steam and desire, so I make my way to my couch and open my laptop from its place on the coffee table.

I don’t even know where to start.

I’m half-tempted to text Brett and ask. I’ve got his number from the call sheets, and I think about what I would even send.
You win, where do I watch?
Or maybe just,
Send me a file
. But that would admit to my fallibility and weakness.

Instead, I just start with a search engine, and his name.
Brett Buckhurst
.

His website is the first link available, with further clickable options below.

POV. Amateur. Multiples. Masturbation.

I’m trying to calm my nerves at the whole thing as I scroll down the search engine results. His Wikipedia
page is below that, along with a Twitter fan page. There are dozens of articles with titles like “Porn’s Golden Boy,” and “The Porn Star Next Door.” Porn star next door my ass.

Below that, finally, are links to what I imagine are free hosting sites.
KINKED UP, BRETT BUCKHURST SOLO
.

That’s the one I click.

It takes me to a website that’s littered with ads for
Kinked Up
, his representation company, I imagine. There are mere clips of videos, none more than a few minutes long, but there are dozens of them filling up the whole page. I feel like I’m jumping down the rabbit hole as I select one, a thumbnail of Brett in close-up, eyes poised directly at the camera.

It starts innocently enough, and for that, I’m surprised. It’s licentious, sure, but there’s something almost boyish about it. It’s like I’m watching something I’m not supposed to. His eyes are on the camera, his lips parted. His hair is down, and his beard is full. His face is already flushed red (I realize I’m coming into this in the middle of the act), but his features look sharper than ever and yet smooth, like he’s stone-cut. Were the lines of his face less delicately chiseled, he might look like a lumberjack. But everything about him is youthful (the camera loves him), and he more closely resembles a Viking or a Greek god.

For the first time, I can see the attraction.

He’s panting, but it isn’t some dog-needing-water
thing. They’re long breaths, drawn out, heaving. He is incredibly in control, and the sound shoots straight between my thighs.

The camera pulls back, and for the first time, I catch a glimpse of his body. It’s perfect. His muscles are so defined, I could probably fit coins between them, and there’s such inherent strength there that I’m shocked. The muscles of his arm are flexing and releasing, labored motions, and it’s obvious why seconds later.

Brett Buckhurst is entirely on display now, and though I try to offer the man some respect and look away from his cock while keeping my eyes on his, it’s hard not to look. I’m not an expert on dick size. I’m no prude, but I’ve only had a few partners through the years. Their cocks were fine, but honestly, his is both enthralling and intimidating.

I’m caught by the thickness first. I hear myself gasp before I know what’s happened, and I’m suddenly leaning forward on the couch, on the edge of my seat. He’s slumped in his chair, and the length reaches his navel. His balls are shaved, but he has an impressive mess of hair leading down his lower abs, scattered at the base of his swollen shaft. I swallow hard and look up again at his eyes, which sear into the camera.

He’s pumping himself slowly, methodically. He’s taking his time, even though he’s rock hard and has clearly been doing this for a while. I’m amazed, most of the guys I’ve been with go straight for the pounding, having one speed:
breakneck
. But not Brett. He has so much control over himself, over his body, that I marvel when he moans.

“Oh, fuck…” The whisper is from me, and I realize my lips are parted, as are my legs. I’m shaking.

Brett wets his lower lip, and the motion is so sensual that I gasp. His voice is low and pure gravel when he speaks. “You like my cock, baby?” I almost answer him. Brett lets out a pleasured,
“Mmm…”
and I’m done for. “Go ahead, baby,” he says, urging. “Say it. Say you like my cock.”

I’m amazed how well he knows his audience, and I’m even more amazed at how I’m along for the ride instantly, murmuring, “I like it…” It’s like he knows I’ve answered because he lets out a groan. I can feel my pussy throbbing at the sight and sound.

His eyes haven’t moved from the gaze of the camera, and I’m caught in them again suddenly. He speaks again, and this time, he’s beyond urging. It’s a command. His hand around his shaft finally picks up a little speed, but there’s no less authority in his movements. “Touch yourself, baby. Come on. Touch your pussy. Lemme see how wet you are.”

I stun myself, but I have no other choice but to obey. The towel strains to come undone as I widen my legs and my hand slips down to my sex. I make to part my folds with two fingers, but they’re too wet and I can’t get a grip. It takes me by surprise, but it only makes me want more. I’m quivering, my inner walls gripping, needing intrusion, needing more, needing
him
…

Brett growls with pleasure, and the rumble of his voice has me pressing two fingers inside of myself. He still hasn’t broken eye contact.

“Stay with me,” he demands. “My pace, baby. Fuck yourself. I wanna see that sweet wet pussy.”

I start to lose control. I feel like I’m cheating somehow, but keeping his pace is just too damn slow and I can’t help but pump my fingers in and out of myself faster than he strokes himself. My hips rock, and I mercilessly struggle to hold back. I need to stay with him, for reasons I can’t possibly understand. I don’t want to come until he does.

My heart is pounding in my chest as his pace picks up --
finally
! -- and he’s soon jerking himself so fast that I can hear the slap of his fist against his abdomen. He’s now moaning with every other thrust, starting to come apart a little bit himself, and I don’t think I’ve ever been so aroused in my life. I’m soaking my fingers, drenching the couch beneath me, my fingers like pistons firing at a wild pace, coming undone as he does.

His entire body is glistening with sweat, and the effort is hard and concerted. His breath suspends for a few moments, and he finally grunts, “Fuck, baby, I’m gonna come… come on, come with me… come fucking hard for me…
now!
”

I obey, and I reach my crest as Brett does. He spurts beads of hot, white come onto his abdomen. I let out a cry so loud that it almost surprises me as I come around my fingers hard, wave after wave undulating against them. It lasts for longer than I expect, as if waiting for Brett to finish, too. He does, squeezing every drop that he can from his engorged head.

“Oh fuck,” he murmurs, the aftermath settling. My trembling slows, and I feel sated as he adds, “You’re beautiful, you know that?”

The video comes to an abrupt end, and I’m left with knocking knees and a soaked hand, which I wipe haphazardly against my towel. I quickly close my laptop as though I can block out what happened, and pretend as though I wasn’t getting off to Brett Buckhurst like every other woman in the world.

It’s early, but I’m on set just after Rob, in preparation. I’ve got to hand it to the guy: he’s devoted to his craft.

Today is the day I’ve been dreading since I first got the script rewrites. Today, we film a pivotal sex scene.

It sounds like it would be right up my alley, but it isn’t, for a few reasons.

First of all, it’s a rough scene. I fuck rough all the time, that’s not the problem. But in porn, there’s freedom. There are safe words and ways to make sure no one is actually hurt, but I don’t have to be worried about my pacing. In film, any bruise can cause a lawsuit. I’ve been warned about this from day one.

Second of all, the mood around the set is going to shift. I know that. It shifted when I was handed the rewrites in the first place. Everyone is wondering what I’m going to do, how I’m going to handle it. Everyone is either anxious, or they’re excited, and there’s absolutely no in between here.

It’s fine, really, but I get the distinct feeling that they’re pandering to my usual audience, and that’s the whole thing I was trying to avoid in the first place.

I’m in my trailer, rewrites in one hand, fork in the other, digging into a Tupperware of cold chicken, shredded, no seasoning. It doesn’t taste like anything at all, and I eat it slowly while I concentrate.

Scratch that. While I
try
to concentrate.

I’m having trouble. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about Kylie, and it’s driving me insane. I don’t do this. I don’t get it bad for women who judge my career. I don’t get it bad for women
period
. I am forward and upfront with what I want, but I have an unconscionable need for some reason to understand her. I have a desperate need for her to accept me for who I’ve been for the last ten years.

When we talked yesterday, she was strong. Firm in her convictions. She judged me, I’m sure, for my little session with Karen. I can’t blame her for that one. Fuck,
I
judge me for my session with Karen.

I can’t call it weakness. Karen is one of the hottest women on set. What I can
call it is reckless. But I hadn’t questioned the decision at all until Kylie gave me that look. The look that read,
I’m sure, somehow, you’re better than that
.