The Porn Shoot

I bolt up with a sudden desperate breath, the details of the horrible nightmare that roused me instantaneously forgotten. My mouth is parched, my head throbbing, my eyes barely able to open at all. Struggling against the searing sunlight, everything is hazy, a bitter grunt escaping my mouth as I lift a hand up over my face. Fuck the fucking sun! I spread my fingers wide enough to see my other hand clenching a sheet, suddenly realizing that I have absolutely no idea where I am or how I got here.

At least I'm not waking up in the fucking drunk tank. Not this time! Fuck it, I feel so awful I'm just going to pass out and sleep some more. And then the worst possibility imaginable crosses my mind, my foggy brain screaming his name. No, I couldn't have. I couldn't have.

I instantly force my fingers wider, my eyelids steadily giving up their resistance, and discover that I'm lying in my own room. Retreating back into my pillow, I let out the most blissful exhale of my life. Pulling the sheet back over myself, I wonder what the fuck happened last night, sighing loudly as my eyes close again and I recognize that I've suffered yet another blackout. I need to quit drinking. I need to fucking give it up. I feel like I'm about to piss the bed, and I'm desperate to guzzle at least a whole gallon of water, but I still can't summon the will to move, to face the blistering light again, knowing that I'm at least safe in my own bed. Shit, I'm still fucking buzzed too! If I opened my eyes and looked around, the room would be spinning--I'm fucking spinning lying here right now even though I'm completely still. What the fuck did I do last night?

I already know that it's a lost cause to try to recall how a night I can barely remember in the first place ended, having traversed that empty path countless times before. Who I talked to, the ways I might have embarrassed myself, that was all forever forgotten after I crossed that certain point of drunkenness; I'll never recall any of that unless someone who was more sober than I was eventually fills me in. And that's a tough task when I can't even remember who I might have talked to last night.

I'm such a fuck-up. No wonder my mom wouldn't give me more money. What do I do the second I get paid, when I desperately need the cash to pay my rent? I go piss a good chunk of it away. Shit, how much did I fucking spending last night? I reach for my phone on the nightstand, the place I always leave it when I pass out, but my hand just hits the bare wood. There's nothing there. God damn it.

Whatever, I'm still drunk right now. I probably passed out with my phone still in my pocket. Reaching underneath the sheet, my hands grazing my bare thighs, I realize I'm not wearing anything at all. My left hand hits the head of my half-hard dick, and it's only that solid because I desperately need to piss.

Then I hear a gentle sigh, my sheet rippling as someone else manipulates it. Fuck. Fuck! What did I do last night? Kyle. His name washes over me again, still drunk or not. What the fuck did I do last night? What if it's him lying next to me in my bed?

I don't know who's there and I'm scared as shit to find out, so I half-cover my face struggling to open my eyes against the light again, trying to see the person who's there next to me. If it's Kyle--no, I couldn't have. I tossed his number into the trash. I went out and I drank, drank, and drank. There's no way I came back to my apartment last night to find his number. It's not Kyle, no way. I wouldn't have done that. I couldn't have possibly done that blackout drunk.

When I lift my hand high enough to actually see the person next to me, I'm relieved to find long brown hair, the girl I must have picked up facing toward the wall. Not Kyle. Of course it's not Kyle. I'm so relieved I smirk and laugh, but she doesn't stir. Did we fuck? I have no idea if we fucked, I don't remember her name or anything else about her right now, but she needs to fucking leave. I've suffered enough in the last 24 hours.

I cough loudly, but she doesn't budge. Go figure, if I'm still this wasted I probably bought this random chick enough booze to ensure she was completely trashed too. I violently yank the sheet, but the girl still doesn't move. Fuck it, time to be more extreme. Now I rip the sheet away, forcing it out from underneath her, and she finally stirs, her body slowly rolling over toward mine.

"Hey," I say loudly, mustering all the enthusiasm I can despite my miserable condition. "Morning!" I'm such a fucking dick, and this girl is actually smoking hot, but she can't stay here right now.

Her eyes shut and slowly blink open again. "I'm so tired," she complains, her voice raspy.

Too bad, bitch. "Sorry, but I have to get up for work," I lie.

She sighs and fumbles for her phone. At least she knows where she fucking left hers. "It's 7:47," she mumbles after peering at the screen.

Who cares what time it is? She needs to go. "Yeah, I'm really sorry, but I'm scheduled to clean up for opening today," I lie again.

The girl covers her eyes with a hand. "What?" she says like she's shocked. "You said you were off today. You promised we were going to get brunch."

I'm a fucking moron. "I totally forgot about my shift," I say, trying to sound sincere. "My boss just called and I'm already late."

She uncovers her eyes and looks straight into mine, a hint of suspicion obvious. "You found your phone?"

"Yeah," I answer instantly, silently panicking that I might have actually lost it in the course of the drunken night. How else could she know that it was missing? "Yeah, I found it."

Her head hits the pillow again, her eyes closing. "You still owe me a brunch," she mutters in her raspy voice. "But it's fine, you can call the Uber."

God damn it. What else did I fucking promise? "Call the Uber?"

Now the girl looks at me like she's disgusted. "You said you would pay for the Uber back to the house if I came back with you last night."

Yeah, of course I did, and now I don't actually know where my fucking phone is. "Oh, yeah--but my debit card is locked," I say as convincingly as I can. "I spent so much last night the bank thought it was fraud. I have to call them when they open today."

She sighs and slightly shakes her head, "I told you not to get bottle service," she mumbles. "I was already so drunk."

Fuck my life. Whatever, I'll have to deal with that later. "Yeah, once I get started--hey, I really do have to get going though. Can you call that Uber?" I climb out of the bed still completely naked, scanning the carpet next to the nightstand. No phone.

The girl groans, her eyes closing again. "Can't I just sleep some more and let myself out later?"

"Hey, I'm sorry, but I'm really not comfortable with that," I say as I'm reaching into the pockets of my shorts on the floor, finding them empty aside from my wallet. "You know, we just met--"

"Fine," she angrily interrupts, lifting her phone up and tapping on the screen. She starts groggily rising up with the phone in her hand, naked except for a lacey white bra.

Normally this is a moment when I'd say fuck it, take everything I'd just said back, and throw her down on the bed. Instead I turn away as she's peeling her clothes off the bedroom carpet and putting them back on. But I'm hungover. I'm so hungover. That's all it is. If I had the energy I would be destroying her pussy right now.

"You're a real fucking asshole," she mutters just before walking past me toward the kitchen.

Why the fuck am I letting this hot woman just walk away? I trail after her, suddenly feeling desperate to save face as she's grabbing her purse off the counter and starting to trudge toward the front door. "Hey," I offer authoritatively, "come to Sports this weekend and you can have whatever you want on me. Maybe stick around until closing?" I smile as her head cranes back to me, that look of disgust planted on her face again. "Maybe we can get that brunch then?"

She scoffs as she slips her feet into a pair of flats, opening the door and facing me. "You didn't even have sheets on your bed, you couldn't get hard, and you passed out on top of me while you were trying. And now you're kicking me out of your apartment at 8:00 AM after promising me brunch and a ride home? Go fuck yourself, Jamie."

I'm so stunned I can't form words as she walks out and slams the door shut behind her.

Shit. "Well, she's not wrong," I mumble to myself in the now silent apartment. "I am a real fucking asshole." I let out a loud defeated sigh and finally pour myself a glass of water, immediately gulping it all down. I'm so exhausted I don't bother walking back to the bathroom, just whipping my dick into the kitchen sink and letting a seemingly endless torrent of hot piss fly.

I grab another glass of water and settle my naked body on the couch, propping my head against the cushion. I'll never remember everything I did last night, but maybe I can at least retrieve enough fragments to figure out what happened to my fucking phone.

I had walked over to the Tap Room, the closest bar to my apartment, and I immediately recognized the bartender, Mitch, as a guy who frequently comes into Sports. We'd served each other before, and we'd always been generous. Last night he was charging me a buck for everything I ordered, and I was tipping him as well as he tipped me when I was on the other side. I was drinking pretty slowly for a few hours, not wanting to abuse his generosity and happy to be any level of fucked up after what I'd done that day. We were bragging to each other about our sexual exploits as the crowd steadily grew, even if he didn't understand that I was desperate to reassure myself that I'm not a fucking fag. And then the shift changed, a new bartender who I didn't know charging me full price for everything. Whatever, I'd just made $750. I felt like I could afford to have some fun.

I kept ordering drinks and eventually I was liquored up enough to hit on every decent-looking girl in the bar. I was buying tons of drinks for women who quickly wandered away. They could tell I was a fucking desperate mess and it was still way too early for any of them to settle for that. I was doing shots with a new girl, not the same one I'd woken up with, who I must have spent at least an hour talking to, and that's where the film runs out. I have no idea what fucking happened after that, no idea how long I was out, no idea when I finally made it home.

The Tap Room is the most logical place to try looking for my phone, and I know they're serving brunch already. When I try to lift myself up off the couch, I can't even summon the will to move. I feel like a fucking idiot, and I'm so unbelievably humiliated. I couldn't even get my dick hard? I fell asleep on top of her? Obviously that was the booze. I've done plenty of drunk fucking, but blackout drunk fucking? I'm sure it's happened before, and I'm sure I had the exact same problem. Who could possibly achieve a raging hard on when they're that wasted?

Fucking Kyle. Fuck Kyle. I should have just sold my laptop and spent the rest of the semester getting shit done in the library. I should have dropped Bob Howard's business card in the trash the second he'd pressed it into my fingers. Fucking disgusting old man. Fucking Kyle. Fucking...

***

When I wake up, I still feel like shit, maybe even a little worse now that the previous night's buzz has completely dissipated. Instinctively reaching around for my phone, I quickly remember that I'm a total fuck-up and still have no clue where it is. God damn it. I sigh as I squint my eyes trying to read the clock on the microwave. 12:17. The temptation to take another long nap is overwhelming, but I know I need to be responsible for a change. Actually responsible. I'm definitely in no position to replace my fucking phone right now.

After a few more glasses of water and dropping another load of piss down the kitchen sink, I decide to skip showering. Who cares what anyone thinks of me right now? I'm fucking trash anyway. I put on some of my laziest clothes and plod over to the Tap Room like I'm being forced to relive a horrible crime. The sunlight, the traffic, the people loudly talking everywhere, it's all a miserable, grating torture. Why am I constantly subjecting myself to living my life this way?

I wander into the bar finding the place strangely illuminated and staged for brunch, bizarrely serene compared to the usual cacophony.

"How many?" a petite blond hostess asks. "Or did you just want to sit at the bar?" she adds a second later, presumably after she'd taken a moment to actually size me up.

"Yeah, I, uh, think I might have lost my phone here last night?" I stumble to say, miserable that I'm being forced to speak to another human being right now.

There's a subtle smile on her face, the kind that betrays she's already heard a story from some other employee about the missing phone. "I think the bartender has one if you want to check with him," she suggests, not bothering to point the way.

"Thanks," I mutter, striding past the tables to the huge bar on the back wall.

"Jamie!"

It's Mitch, the familiar face who I'd shared the conscious part of the night with. "Hey, man," I greet listlessly.

He grins, reaching behind the bar and pulling out a phone. "You leave something here last night?"

I grab it hopefully from his hand and see my lock screen, looking at Mitch in disbelief. "How did you even know?"

The bartender starts laughing hysterically. "You left your bill on top of it when you paid your last tab, you fucking drunk."

"Shit," I mumble. "Thanks, man." I start to turn away but I can tell there's something else he wants to say.

"Dude," Mitch starts slyly, lowering his voice. "So what's her name? Does she ever come in?"

"Well," I stumble, assuming he thinks I must have hooked up, "I, uh, met her here, right?"

He smirks and shakes his head. "Not the one you bagged last night. The hot slut you were ranting about to Josh. You were saying she's the best fuck you've ever had, and I know you've been around."

This fucking day gets worse and worse. What the fuck was I even talking about? I wasn't in my right mind, obviously. "I'll point her out next time I have the chance," I pretend to promise, struggling to smile even though I want to vomit.

"Hey, I'm not asking to share!" Mitch jokes. "I just want to get a look at her!"

"Yeah, we'll see about that. Thanks again, man!" I turn away before he has the chance to say anything else, speeding out of the place despite my crippling hangover.

I settle on a bench that's on a sidewalk right next to the bar and hold my phone up, seeing that I have a voicemail. I don't immediately recognize the number, but within seconds I realize who it belongs to: Bob Howard. Which horrible news do I want first? My bank balance after a night of unbridled depravity or Bob yelling at me for the way I'd handled the cum shot with Logan or Kyle or whoever the fuck he is? Fuck it. I might as well see what the old man has to say. I start playing the message.

"Hey, Jamie," Bob greets warmly. "This is Bob from Campus. It's currently Sunday morning, hope you're having a great day."

There was an obnoxiously pregnant pause. Get to the god damn fucking point, Bob. Add to the long, long and constantly growing list of the shit that I screw up.

"I just wanted to give you a call to let you know that I watched some of the raw footage you guys shot on Saturday," he continues. "You were absolutely fantastic with Logan, absolutely fantastic, a total natural--I'm going to be honest with you, Jamie, I think you're one of the best new guys we've cast all year."

I can't even believe what I'm hearing.

"I would really love to have you back to film some more scenes with us," Bob says excitedly. "And we can definitely discuss bumping your rate up if you can deliver like that for me again."

I start laughing to myself on the sidewalk like a fucking crazy person. Did I finally do something right in my life?

"So, great job with that shoot," Bob compliments, "and please, please give me a call back if you're interested in working with us some more and we can definitely discuss the details. Looking forward to hearing back from you, Jamie. Enjoy the rest of your day."

The messages ends with a click and I feel more conflicted about everything than I have all day. Whatever, I don't have time to think about that. I'm being responsible now. I open my banking app, bracing myself to see the transactions from last night. Shit. I'd spent $300, half of it on bottle service, and the tips haven't even posted yet. I'm going to need more money, and I'm going to need it fucking fast. I am such a fucking moron.

While all the other hungover people gleefully enjoy their brunch food and mimosas, I walk the short distance back to my apartment wondering if I can put myself through another one of Bob's porn shoots. I'm fucking good at it, right? I was "fantastic" in Bob's words, one of their best new guys of the year. And he wants to pay me more to do it? Maybe I just need rules going forward. Work will be work, and that's that. No hanging out with anyone else off set, no expensive drunken existential crises. Just work, just performing with my best bartender persona, showing off my great physique, and collecting the fat check.

Stepping back into my apartment, I instantly strip off my clothes and settle back on the couch. I still feel awful, but I start touching my own body, rubbing my hands over my pecs, down my faint abs, down my huge thighs. I'm hot as fuck. Who wouldn't want to see me naked? Why shouldn't I take full advantage of being able to make vastly more money than I could make from the bar? Doing that job doesn't have to change anything about who I am. I can be like every other straight guy who works at Campus, putting in a great performance to take home my cash and then fucking all the chicks I want. It's just like being a bartender. I almost never want to actually fuck the people I'm serving drinks to, but I'll flirt with all of them all night long to collect their tips.

Porn is just another service industry. Smile, bear it, act like you're having a great time. I'm fucking good at that. I'm a fucking natural.

***

I passed out naked on my couch yet again, waking up 30 minutes before I was supposed to clock in for my Sunday shift. Whatever, that's the great thing about living so close to my job. After a quick shower, struggling to wash away all the humiliation and shame of the day, I donned a black Sports tank and a gray pair of gym shorts, rushing out my front door and easily punching in on time. After eight hours of naps and an absurd amount of water, I was close to 100%, even if I was starving. I made that up slipping into the kitchen all night, feasting on everything the customers had sent back. Who knew a bunch of drunks could be so fucking picky?

Before I knew it, 2:00 AM had arrived, closing time, all the lights turning up and the blaring music going silent as the Sports staff started the task of cleaning up all the raucous debauchery a rowdy crowd of college kids can inflict. I did a bunch of shots with my coworkers, something we always do when we're finally alone and rendering the place spotless for the next afternoon. My manager even did a round with me.

And now I'm finally trudging home with a nice buzz and $100 in my pocket, barely tired since I'd spent most of the last 24 hours sleeping. I'm broke as fuck, still likely to be late on the rent, but Bob had dangled a desperately needed lifeline in my face. Fucking another dude to get your shit together isn't the worst thing in the world. It's better than pissing away $300 flipping out about it. Fuck that.

Walking into my apartment and kicking my shoes off, I settle down on the couch where I'd spent most of the day, propping my feet up on the coffee table. Within a few minutes of mindless phone scrolling I realize how insanely horny I am. I'd cum just twice in the span of a week, probably a personal record since I'd first discovered the magnificent pleasure of jacking off.