“Be quiet,” she replied. “Don’t play into the stereotype that all porn has to be filthy and disgusting.”
“Isn’t that the whole point of porn?” I asked.
“Not my porn.”
“Listen to yourself, Skye. You’re not Ron Howard for Christ’s sake!”
“Ron Jeremy, you plonker. Ron Howard is Richie from fucking Happy Days.” All said with a smirk on her face. Christ, she was beautiful. “Although, this porn is going to be as good as a Ron Howard film.”
“Oh, no. We’re not going for film parodies, are we? I’m not sure how to create a catchy porn pun with The Da Vinci Code.” I held my finger to my chin in thought as she shook her head. “The Punini Code?”
“Let’s keep the jokes to a minimum, shall we?” she replied as I sat back on the sofa. This had been my bed for the night on many occasions. Sleepless nights mainly, as I made a mental list of reasons why I shouldn’t make my way down to Skye’s room. “Maybe we could ask Matt if he knows anyone who would be interested in being in a porn film?”
“He’s a male escort, Skye. I don’t think that means he knows everyone in the sex industry.”
“It’s worth noting.”
I shot up, amused and bewildered. Normal reactions when Skye was around. “This is complete madness!”
“Are you going to help me or not?” There was no need to answer that, of course I was going to help her. It catered to every one of my needs. I loved porn and I loved Skye. This bonkers idea allowed me to spend more time with her. I chose not to think about how ridiculous it was and decided to go along with it in the hope she would see sense before getting to the stage of auditioning porn stars.
I took a deep breath and faked annoyance. “So, what is it to be? Ladyporn? Vases of flowers in the background. Tasteful décor?”
“No,” she replied. “We want either gender to enjoy it and stop taking the piss.”
“Ah, OK. Let me make a note of this. Gender fluid.”
“Ooh! Transgender?”
“You’re doing one shoot, Skye. We can’t cater to the porn massive. We need to decide our niche and run with it.” She gave me a blank look that soon turned into confusion. “Ladyporn it is then.”
“No!” she whisper-shouted. “Give me some tropes.”
“Tropes? Porn doesn’t usually have much of a storyline,” I replied. “How about something bawdy? Milkman waits in the bushes until the husband has gone to work and he can get his leg over.”
“Not helping,” she replied. “This isn’t the 1970s.”
“I was hoping to add porn moustache and flares to the storyboard.” She completely ignored me.
“What if we market it as nice porn?” she asked.
“You mean mum’s–best–mate–primary–school–teacher–bible–study–group porn?”
She lifted her eyebrows and continued. “Women who want something enjoyable.”
“All porn is enjoyable,” I replied.
“Trust me, it isn’t.” I glazed over for a second, wondering what Skye would consider enjoyable. “I’ve got it!” She stood up and her breasts jiggled in that corset again. I could feel the rush of blood through my body. A high point. A hard-on. Christ, this harebrained idea of hers was going to be extremely uncomfortable for my nether regions. “Romanceography.” She said it like it was a secret with jazz hand accompaniment. She waited for my response, but I was confused, amused…majorly turned on.
“What…is that?”
“Pornography gives the wrong message…throws up the wrong images. Ick,” she shivered. “Romanceography gives a different feel, don’t you think?”
“It doesn’t make any sense, Skye, but neither does making a porn film.”
She opened the laptop Stacey had left on the coffee table and put it on my knees. “Search for porn,” she said, crossing her arms.
“What?”
“Show me what you enjoy. Imagine you’re home alone and horny. What would you search for?”
“Skye–” She opened her mouth slightly, took a shaky breath. Her mouth. Fuck, I wanted to touch it, tell her I could watch her forever, admit that I always would.
“Show me,” she replied, her breath catching. I watched as she bit her lip, wondered if she knew how vulnerable she looked, how willing, but that couldn’t be true. My mind was playing tricks, inflated by the tension in the air, the heat. “What do you…like?” You, Skye. Just you. I kept eye contact, lifted the corner of my mouth. Met her head on. What game was she playing?
No game, dickwad. She likes tatted bikers. I was wearing a Superman t-shirt under my sweater. Classic Clark Kent.
I started typing and slid the laptop back to her. She gave a breathy laugh. Any type of porn. She sighed, dropped her eyes. “You’re easily pleased.” Drumming her fingers against the touch pad, she put it back on my knees. “Try again, Will.”
She watched me carefully, her fingers against her mouth, a definite smirk. She looked so beautiful, so Skye. Her pink hair had settled over her left shoulder, curls and softness that I wanted to feel against my chest, my skin. I took a deep breath and started to type, laughing as she smiled at my awkwardness. “Here.” I put the laptop back on the coffee table and covered my mouth as the film started to play.
“I should have known,” she said. “Harley Quinn and the Joker.”
“It’s been known to be a favourite of mine.”
“Is it the little shorts that do it for you? The hair in bunches? The baseball bat that she could club you to death with?”
“Just wait and see what she does with the baseball bat,” I replied, wiggling my eyebrows.
“Oh, holy fuck.” She grimaced, her eyes shielded, but I knew she was peeking through. “He’s really rough with her boobs. He just grabbed them without asking if she was fine with that. She has this look of surprise but keeps letting him do it.” She pointed two fingers to her mouth in an I’m going to puke motion. “That’s sexual assault right there, Will.”
“Not a fan of the boob grabbing,” I replied. “Got it.”
“I’m a fan of consent,” she said.
“Maybe we missed the dialogue,”
