So we're horsing around before the shoot. I'm licking her pussy and squeezing her tits to get her warmed up and she says, "Ain't you had any breakfast."
"I'm having two strips of bacon and a couple of fried eggs now," I say.
"Don't talk with your mouth full," she says, pushing my head further between her legs, and does this cackle that's meant to be saucy but is just plain irritating. She's knew to the game and already whining. Got menstrual cramps, wants it heavily oral. Now the director's an anal cowboy but she's got her thuggish hubby in tow so it's ok. She tried to suck my dick and it was hopeless, like she was nibbling on chicken feed. I know most men are so grateful for head they cross themselves the minute they feel hot breath within ten feet of their nuts but I'm in the business; here you're dealing with professionals who can suck golf balls through a hosepipe. And she's there, catching me with her overbite and I say, "Fuck, you're not crimping a pie crust." She gets stroppy and her other half is staring at me so I say it's just too good, I'll spill before the camera starts rolling. That's why I was gnarly. Ever the polite excuse. Truth is, I'm not into fucking unless it's celluloid. My cock belongs to the screen. To all our screens. A production assistant, pot of KY and paintbrush in hand, anointed her cunt and anus. Hubby wasn't pleased. As if he'd fuck a dry one. Autumn in my soul/heart and an Arab Strap shackles my cock and balls. It’s easy to cope; just deal with the whatever. The key to this job is redefining sensations as pleasurable. A life searched out and read in the remains.