The Porn Star

by

Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, .

Desc: Erotica Sex Story: 52-year-old men don't get offered the chance to take part in a porn movie, do they?



© Connard Wellingham 2007

"Come on, old man, let's get this over with," she said in a tone of utter boredom.

That was the final straw. My erection, already threatening to wilt, drooped like a dead chrysanthemum. My face took on the hue of Rudolf's nose.

"I'm sorry, Dave," I muttered. "This was a really bad idea."

"Okay, folks, take five," he called to the assembled crew.

I poured a cup of the sludge that had been provided as coffee and slunk off to a quiet corner to nurse my injured pride. How the hell had I let myself be talked into this? Talk about an old fool...

We had been in the pub. It had been someone's leaving do so the drinking had started early. We were in the third, or maybe it was the fourth, pub. The normal people had long gone; the ones with wives or husbands or home lives or just had better things to do with their time than get rat-arsed on a Friday night, so it was just the hard-core drinkers that remained. I didn't really count myself among that group but as I had neither wife nor husband waiting for me nor, come to that, much of a home life or anything better to do, I joined them from time to time.

Being men and being drunk, the talk inevitably turned to women. Not, of course, how pleasant we found their company or how we admired their ability to cope with two screaming children while still managing to prepare the evening meal: no, the discussion centred around such enlightening topics as whether Victoria Beckham had really had a boob job and now much more silicone Jordan could assimilate. Someone mentioned some porn star called Minka and there was general agreement among those who knew who she was that there were limits to everything, even tits. That led to someone remarking that he didn't care how much silicone they had, he wouldn't mind being a porn star. Someone else, Alan I think it was, remarked that there was a new genre of porn with natural-looking actresses, generally very young: many of them pretend to be amateurs. I vaguely wondered how come he knew so much about it.

And it was at this point disaster struck for the next comment was from Frank who complained that his e-mail was fucked because he was being spammed by adverts for sites where old men screw young women. I laughed. The whole idea seemed so preposterous. Who would want to see some overweight, balding old guy having it away with some twenty-year-old and why would the said twenty-year-old want to have anything to do with an overweight, balding old guy?

"It's true you know," someone said quietly in my ear.

It was a fellow from one of our subsidiary offices. I think he'd said his name was Roger. Anyway, I didn't know him that well.

"How would you know?" I asked a trifle belligerently.

"I have connections," he smiled.

"Connections? What sort of connections?"

"With the business. Frank's right; there are sites that show older men having sex with young women. And they're very popular."

I regarded him somewhat blearily. "Do they bring them out of retirement? You know, like whatshisface, John Holmes?"

He laughed. "Hardly. Mostly they're amateurs. It's not easy being a man in a porn movie."

"How hard can it be?" I said and laughed uproariously at my clever pun.

He merely smiled. I had the sudden impression he was not nearly as drunk as I was. "How long can you keep an erection?"

"I dunno. I've never tried."

"Can you get one easily?"

"How do you mean?" I wasn't sure I liked the direction this conversation was going.

"Do you take a long time to get it up or does it just sort of pop up of its own accord."

"That's pretty damn personal but the latter. What's this all about, anyway?"

He shrugged. "Just asking. You're in good shape, got no ties, not bad looking. Would you be interested?"

"Interested in what?" I knew I should have refused that last pint.

"In making a movie."

"Movie? You mean... ?" I struggled to kick my beer-befuddled brain into gear. "What would I have to do?"

He laughed. "The usual things."

"Usual... ? Right. I get it. The usual things. Very good," I laughed too loudly at his joke.

"So, you interested?"

"I dunno. Older men and younger women, you said?" He nodded. "How young?"

He shrugged again. "Anywhere between eighteen and twenty-five. Can't be younger than eighteen. Not legal in the States, you know." He gave me a knowing look. "Of course, there's always the, er, more mature women, if you'd prefer."

"More mature?"

He spread his arms wide. "You know, larger."

I shuddered. "No thanks. I prefer 'em slim."

"Takes all sorts, you know."

"Tell me." Mike Jones, our financial controller was married to a lady about twice his size and seemed deliriously happy. A little bit of sense began to creep in. "Would I be... recognisable?"

"Of course. That's the point. Ordinary bloke screws young thing."

"But what if..." I indicated our drinking companions who were arguing about football again.

"So what," he grinned. "First off, no-one's going to recognise you with your clothes off and second, what the hell?"

The idea of actually having sex with a girl half my age finally penetrated my drink-sodden brain and, despite being well over the odds, my gonads took over and I became half hard. No problem getting it up, at any rate. Sex with some sexy bint? Yeah. Someone would be filming me but they had cam-corders these days, didn't they? How hard could it be?

"What the hell. Fuck it, you've convinced me."

"Give me your mobile number and I'll call you next week."

He drifted off and, after downing the rest of my pint, I realised I'd had more than enough so made my excuses and left.

The weird conversation came back to me the following afternoon, once the inevitable hangover had subsided to a dull pounding and general feeling of unwellness. I replayed it in my head and dismissed it as the usual sort of arrangements men make when they're pissed. You know, someone persuades you what a brilliant experience white water rafting is and promises to invite you next time they're going when the truth is that they've done it once and pissed themselves all the way down and you get seasick on a pedallo.

On Wednesday my mobile rang with a number I didn't recognise.

"Pete? It's Roger."

"Roger?"

"Yes, you remember. The pub. Last Friday."

"Roger. Yeah. Sorry. How are you?"

"Fine. Fine. You? Recovered?"

"Had one hell of a hangover on Saturday but, yes, I'm fine."

"You remember our conversation?"

"About screw..."

"Not over the phone, please."

"What? Okay. Yes, I remember."

"You still interested?"

Was I interested? Sad, lonely, fifty-two-year-old Pete gets the chance to have sex with twenty-something girl. You bet I was interested.

"I'm interested."

"Good. I'll make some calls. Someone called Dave will probably call you."

"Dave. Right."

"Have fun."

As he rang off, I looked at the phone as if it was a piece of alien sculpture. What had I done? Had I really just agreed to take part in a porn movie? I still couldn't get my head round it.

Dave phoned the following week. He was a bit cagey and tried to ask me all sorts of intimate questions about my sex life, the size of my cock and my stamina without actually asking any direct questions. It was very Kafka-esque.

"Wouldn't it be easier if we met somewhere?" I asked.

"Not really practical. Rog said you were okay so I'm taking a chance. You free this weekend?"

"Yes."

"Right, give your e-mail and I'll send you details."

"You sure?"

"Yeah. Truth is, I'm a bit stuck. My regular's had a heart attack."

"Dangerous business, then."

"Naw. Not connected. Silly fool thought he ought to get fit so started going to weight training and aerobics and all sorts. Overdid it."

"Oh. Okay. What do I need to bring."

"Nothing. Just you."

I took special care with my ablutions on Saturday. Not bad, I thought as I surveyed myself critically in the mirror, bum's a bit saggy, there's a bit too much weight around the middle, face is... passable, hair's receding a bit but the shoulders are still there and there's not too much extra weight... I sucked my stomach in... yes, all in all, not bad.

At ten o'clock I was ringing the bell of the non-descript door at the address Dave had e-mailed. It wasn't the most salubrious address in town but that was hardly surprising.

"Yes?" a voice asked from the metal grille at the side of the door.

"I'm Pete. Dave asked me to come."

"Okay. Just push the door and some up. First floor."

There was a buzzing noise and I pushed the door. The hinges squeaked. I was faced with a narrow dingy hallway with two doors and worn stone stairs going up. At the top was a landing with two doors and more stairs going up. The doors were closed but one of them had a grimy plate with the words 'DC Productions' engraved on it in curly letters so I assumed this was the one.

The door wasn't locked. I stepped in to a small reception area much in need of a coat of paint. There was a threadbare carpet on the floor that might, once have been green, and a desk and chair that looked like they'd been rescued from a skip with a battered computer on top. It was empty.

.... There is more of this story ...

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Story tagged with:
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