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She gets to work, and Maxi continues on. “Years? Oh Lucy, I’m sorry. For whatever’s happened, I’m sorry.” She gives a pout but again, it’s not playful or invalidating. It’s… genuine. “We’re all so glad to have you here though. Seriously.” She steps close as Alexa sprays something in my combed hairline. “Lucy Lovegood at Crave?” She flushes, shaking her head in genuine wonder. “We’re so lucky.”
“I feel like the lucky one,” I admit. “Everyone here is so nice. Sometimes I feel like it’s a joke, and I’m just waiting on the punchline to realize… this isn’t real.”
Alexa yanks back on my ponytail, sending a shock of pain down my neck. “You’re real. You felt that, right?”
I laugh and rub the back of my neck as she rolls my hair into some bun contraption. “Oh I felt that.”I have no problems feeling pain, I think as she finishes up. Maxi excuses herself, and I hate that she’s likely putting my things away for me. Tomorrow I will do better.
I face the mirror and think about what’s ahead, trying to get my mind right.
I’m in a solo scene today. My contract is pretty specific and rare for porn, I think. But Aug was the one to suggest it, the one to make me feel like it was okay. I realize he saw just how broken I was before I even did.
He knew traditional scenes, no matter how respectful, would break the fragile thread holding me together. I’d reached the point where I just couldn’t be touched that way anymore.
I still can’t.
I haven’t since the last scene I filmed at Jizzabelle over two months ago. And the more time that passes, the more I think I don’t ever want to be touched again.
After finding my mark on set, I browse the script laid out for me. I’m a figure skater who has fallen in love with her partner. We’ve just won a gold medal on ice, and I’m realizing my needs for him.
That’s…I can do that. I mean, I can’t actually masturbate and bring myself to orgasm. But I can stand on my mark, focus on the story, and perform a beautiful and believable scene.
There will be no longing, no heat, no orgasm. I can’t.
I take my spot, and blink toward the set light to spot Aug behind the camera, Lance at his side. “Light check, then we’re ready,” he calls to me, and I nod, smoothing my hands along the sides of my head, making sure my skating hairstyle is intact.
From the inky corners of the set, where reality blends with the scene, Cohen appears. His big hands fiddle with a device as he steps next to me. Without a glance my way, he lifts his meter then checks the screen, passing a single nod to Aug across from him.
He steps past me again, making his way off the painted floor to the plain concrete. Lance begins to count, and I can’t take my eyes off Cohen and his solemn indifference.
“Three,” he counts, and right then, Cohen’s sharp blue eyes lock to mine. My breath hitches, my chest tightening.
“Two,” Lance calls.
I’ve looked at Cohen many times. I even asked Tucker about him. It’s not often a tall, handsome (gorgeous, really), well-dressed man works on a porn set and is respectful, quiet and reserved.
I mean, he’s as good as a leprechaun riding a unicorn in my book.
But he’s never ever looked at me. Not once.
The slates clatter and my focus moves jarringly to the small mirror in front of me. I collect my breath and rattle off some lines, all the while wondering why?
Why did he look at me today? And why did it make me feel seen?
Reaching up, I release the band from my hair, letting the bun free, sending waves toppling down my back. With a gentle shake, my blonde hair falls like a curtain of silk across my shoulders, partially covering my breasts. That’s important as I’m supposed to seductively unzip the bodysuit, and have my breasts only somewhat exposed initially.
Shimmying it down my hips, I place my heel in the crotch of the unitard and step out easily. Finding my reflection in the tiny prop mirror, I let my hands fall to my breasts. Something about your hair down and wild all around you, holding yourself, yearning—it’s powerful in solo scenes.
It’s meant to put both the performer and viewer in the mood.
But I’m not in the mood. Touching myself, seeing my naked body, being under the lights—none of it feels right. Even with safety all around me, all of me itches to cover up and… disappear.
But that is for therapy later today. Right now, I’m in scene and need to honor the man who rescued me from my hell by being present here and now. Giving this scene everything I have.
“I wish it was your hands,” I murmur softly, rolling my neck slowly. My long hair slides off my shoulders as my head falls back, my palms skating down my bare belly. The cool studio air nips at me, making my nipples harden. Contrastingly, the bright light above sears my closed eyelids, and I drop to my knees on the small couch in the “dressing room” set, lessening the effects.
“Your hands all over my body, holding me, helping me fly,” I groan, my fingers exploring my groin as I slowly reposition on the couch, allowing for a camera on a boom arm to cut in close to my face.
No genital close up in solo scenes for me at Crave. And for that, I couldn’t be more grateful.
