Author's Note: This is a series of stories based on actual experiences and observations at a local sex club. It's not a series; the stories can be read individually, but there are some recurring characters.
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Some people are wealthy by birth, others by hard work and ingenuity. Then there are those from humble origins, who have great opportunities drop right into their laps, time and time again. Those born wealthy might have fewer worries, and hard workers more nobility, but he would take being incredibly lucky over either of those two things, thought Nick Shasta.
Born and raised Nicky Shostakovich in a small town in upstate New York to one of only two Russian immigrant families, it may not have seemed the cards were dealt in his favor. He did passably in school, but got his first real break when one of his teachers took a liking to him, pulled a few strings, and got him admitted to NYU.
He'd studied film and businesses, graduating with a double major in the top third of his class, thanks as much to easy graders and his own natural charm as to any work he actually did. He supposed he could thank his sophomore girlfriend, Tara, for the idea that would really change his life. She'd been a women's studies major, a feminist, but in the hyper-sexual, heterosexual way that had made her a real pleasure - literally - to date. In one of her long-winded rants about the evils of pornography, she happened to mention that most women would enjoy watching it more if it was filmed with an eye towards their tastes.
Handsome men, believable storylines, beautiful scenery, foreplay, lovemaking, she matter-of-factly described as being much more appealing to the generally ignored female demographic. The very next night, Nick convinced his friend Sam to seduce a few coeds on camera, really treating them like the venerated sex goddesses he believed they should be. He took his savings and a small loan from his parents to rent a nice hotel room and video camera.
Even those basic videos ended up getting hundreds of thousands of hits in the first few months. The rest, as they say, is history. Nick was now nearing 35, the rich and charming bachelor king of a porn empire - a classy porn empire. Smart investing and lucking into various business opportunities meant he now ran the largest porn company in the country geared specifically toward women.
Yes, he thought, gazing out the window at the busy skyline, it was good to be lucky. There were plenty of opportunities just waiting to drop into the laps of the lucky. He turned, contemplating the security video screen on one wall of his office. There, he mused, came one such opportunity now.
A young woman, probably no older than 22 or so, was walking purposefully into his building. She spoke to the receptionist at the front desk, and Nick was not surprised when his intercom buzzed.
"Yes, Sharon?"
"There's a young lady here to see you, a Ms. Foster. Are you expecting her?"
"No," he said shortly. He watched as the young woman on camera frowned, and then began talking more animatedly, evidently trying to convince Sharon of something.
"Sir, she says she's a reporter for The Times. She flashed her press pass and said she wants an interview."
"I see. Tell her all press requests are to be made through the public relations department. Give her their number, and then send her away." Glancing at the monitor again, he was amused to see her arguing with Sharon, then accepting a business card with a frustrated pout. She turned to stomp toward the door, but only made it halfway. She wandered back to the desk with a sweet expression on her face. Sharon pointed toward the back of the lobby.
No doubt she'd asked where the ladies room was, he thought, just as he had no doubt that she would soon appear at his door. Not five minutes later, his suspicion was confirmed. His personal secretary buzzed him.
"Mr. Shasta, a Ms. Foster here to see you. She says you're expecting her." Linda sounded annoyed, probably because his calendar had no such appointment on it. It took real spunk to claim someone was expecting to see you when they weren't. He was curious about her now.
"Send her in, Linda. Please hold my calls."
"Yes, sir."
A moment later, the door opened, and a young woman walked in. She was only a few inches shorter than his 5'11" frame, since her ice-pick thin heels put them eye-to-eye. He noticed that hers were a startlingly bright green. Her black hair was cut in a trendy, asymmetrical bob, and a light sprinkling of freckles fell across her pale skin. His mother might have called it a "roses and cream" complexion. Cute.
"Mr. Shasta, thank you for agreeing to meet with me," she said, holding her hand out. He took it, noticing her firm grip.
"Well, you were very tenacious, lying to my receptionist about our appointment, and about the Times."
"I am with the Times," she protested.
"You're no reporter," he said, dropping into the chair behind his desk and gesturing for her to follow suit. "So who are you?"
"I'm at NYU," she said finally. "I intern at the Times, and our culminating project is to write an article on a notable alumnus of our university. I saw your name on the university's Wikipedia page, and I chose you."
"Do you know what I do?" he asked her with amusement.
"You produce pornographic movies," she replied. "I know all about you." She seemed combative; why?
"Do you know anything about me that's not on my Wikipedia page?" he teased.
"Not...not really, no."
"So you're here to interview me about my meteoric rise to wealth and semi-celebrity, or...?" He left the implied question trail off.
"Actually, I'm hoping to write an expose on the latent sexism in your pornographic movies," she said. He was a little taken aback at this.
"But my movies are made specifically for women, in an attempt to get away from the over-masculinized bulk of pornography out there."
"Your movies still objectify women!" She rattled off some stereotypically feminist talking points that he recognized from his days with Tara: the male gaze, coercion, even hinting that something made "for women" was offensive.
"Listen, Miss - I'm sorry, what was your name?"
"Bree Foster."
"Miss Foster, have you ever even watched one of my movies?"
"Of course I have. For research."
"What did you think?" He was amused to watch the delicate blush rise to her cheeks.
"Well, I...they were...that's a very personal question!"
"You enjoyed them, didn't you?" he asked with a grin.
"That's really none of your business!" she sputtered. "Your films are offensive to women, and I'd like to know more about the women who are in these movies, whether they are even doing this because they want to, and-"
