I was a horrible hooker: Schoolgirl outfits, wealthy execs and Hawaii -- Asa Akira remembers her two escort experiences

Escort money seemed so easy for a porn star. Then I forgot the condoms and had my own "Pretty Woman" cliché

Published May 11, 2014 10:30PM (EDT)

Asa Akira        (Van Styles)
Asa Akira (Van Styles)

Excerpted from "Insatiable" by Asa Akira

I’ve hooked twice. Well, technically three times—but twice was with the same guy.

So I don’t know if it counts.

The first time, I went with Laila. Fresh out of a long, drain-circler of a relationship, it was as if she had all of a sudden stormed into the escorting business with some kind of a vengeance. She even did the whole personal phone/business phone thing. Every time I texted her in the past month, it seemed she was either on her way to a job, or just leaving a job.

“This guy Frederick from Malibu has been asking about you. He’s, like, so fuckin’ rich, girl.” We were lying side by side in the sauna at our local Korean spa, relaxing after an anal threeway scene. The Korean spa is our secret little getaway. No one from porn knows about it, and on its worst day it’s filled with Korean and Russian housewives who keep to themselves. This particular day was a weekday, and the sauna was empty except for us. Not that it would have made a difference if there were other people around. Laila is loud, crude, and gives a fuck about no one. Just that morning she had mortifyingly screamed across the line at a very crowded Starbucks, “Fuck Imodium, I drink coffee before anal!”

It’s inevitable. You can only show the inside of your asshole to the world for so long before your filter ceases to exist.

I wondered why she was bringing this guy up to me. She knew I wasn’t into the escorting thing. This guy Frederick-from-Malibu was notorious for seeing girls in porn, a big-time CEO of a huge, very commercial, very family-friendly company.

“A few people hit me up about him. He sounds gross.” It was true. He had been trying to get other girls to refer him to me since my early days in porn. “There’s no way.”

“He’s super-nice and not gross at all. He’ll pay you whatever you want.”

“Tell him five thousand dollars for half an hour.” Thinking this was a ridiculous deal no one would agree to, I laid a damp towel over my face and we proceeded to talk shit about the potential new girl in our agency. Spiegler was thinking of taking on a new Asian girl. As it stood, Laila and I were the only Asian girls on his roster. We wanted to keep it that way. He only represents twenty-five girls at a time, and so three of them being Asian would seriously dilute our market.

That night, Laila texted me. “He’s in. When can you do it?”

Having no knowledge whatsoever regarding the world of hooking, yet feeling spontaneous, intrigued, and admittedly a little bored, I agreed to see Frederick-from-Malibu for half an hour the next evening, under one condition—that Laila come with me. I had no moral issue against escorting, just an irrational fear (. . . is it, though??) of being murdered. Two girls could take on one guy, right? Besides, the prospect of making my double penetration (one dick in the butt, one in the pussy) rate in a mere thirty minutes (without even putting anything in my ass) was too tempting. It was the length of a television show episode. Not even that long, if it were on HBO or Showtime. I persuaded myself to give it a try.

Laila drove. “Girl, it’s so easy. You’re gonna wonder why you didn’t do this before.”

“I don’t know. What if he tries to pull something? I brought Mace. But it’s fucking pink and I’ve never used it. Does Mace expire?”

“Shut up. We’re gonna get there, have condom sex for ten minutes, shower, and leave. It’s gonna be the easiest money you ever made.”

Condom sex. Shit. I was so wrapped up in thinking of ways to hide my Mace within arm’s reach during the actual fucking, I had totally forgotten to pack condoms. Rule number one as a working girl: Bring. Fucking. Condoms.

We weren’t even there yet, and I already had one strike in the hooker game.

Luckily, Laila was more prepared than me. We got to the hotel, valeted the car, and took a fancy elevator up to the room. This is when things started getting real for me. Or maybe more like surreal. A million thoughts started racing through my head. Mainly, that if someone recognized us, they would for certain know what we were up to. And out us on the Internet. Or worse, call the cops. I turned my head down as much as I could without seeming too weird and silently cursed Laila for talking so damn loud. As we walked through the hallway I recognized the mirrors on the wall from various girls’ self-taken cellphone photos on their Twitter profiles.

When Frederick opened the door, the first thing I noticed was that he was black. I had been hearing about this guy for years, and in my mind, he was white. Not like it really mattered. It’s like that weird sensation when you pick up a drink thinking it’s gonna be water, and as the liquid hits your tongue you realize it’s Coca-Cola. Like everything you knew to be true a second ago is now questionable.

Frederick was wearing a white robe, I guessed with probably nothing underneath. He was much better-looking than I had expected. Handsome, even. Not old.

Not young, but not old.

He flashed a mouth full of expensive-looking, well-done veneers.

“I’ve been waiting to meet you. Come in.”

When we entered the room, I saw he had a porno of mine playing on the TV. I was dressed up in what was porn’s version of a schoolgirl outfit, and fucking my teacher for extra credit. Right away I noticed how horrible my skin looked on the huge screen.

I already regretted coming.

“I laid out some outfits for you girls in the bathroom,” Frederick said.

Laila was clearly feeling more comfortable than me, making herself at home on the floor in front of the minibar. She got her drink, and we went into the bathroom. Just like he said, there were four schoolgirl uniforms laid out on the counter for us to choose from. They looked freshly dry cleaned, but definitely not new. Which girls had worn these outfits before me? Surely, I knew at least a few of them.

I chose a cropped collared shirt that showed off my stomach, and a red plaid skirt that came with a matching tie of the same pattern. I opted for the baggy Japanese-style leg warmer socks rather than the stockings. My shoes, I had brought. Laila picked a similar outfit in blue, only she went for the stockings. After dressing in silence, Laila put my hand in hers. We walked out together like this, hand in hand. I never asked her if she did this to comfort me, or as a part of the act. Either way, it was sweet.

The porno was still on the screen, but it wasn’t my scene anymore. “Teacher, you wanted to see us? Is this about our recent tardiness?” Laila is a fucking pro.

“I hope you didn’t call us in to punish us. We really are very good girls.” I was shocked to hear my own voice chime in on this role play. The inner dialogue running in my head was far different. Shit, I left my Mace in the bathroom. What kind of teacher wears a fucking robe? This is corny. Maybe it’s not too late to go grab my Mace. I could say I have to pee.

“Maybe Teacher can tell us how to work to our full potential.” My mouth was making words that must have been ingrained into my brain from all the schoolgirl scenes I had shot over the years.

“You’re good girls. Teacher thought you might like to earn some extra credit.”

In this moment, I realized that people are actually into these tired, old, clichéd porno scenarios. Every time I shoot a student/teacher scene, I’m baffled at how the scripts never change. On the other hand, seeing how into the scene he was put me at ease. I probably didn’t need my Mace.

I hoped my lack of enthusiasm wasn’t too obvious.

We bent over against the TV screen and showed off our asses.

“Like this, Teacher?”

“Is this what you want? Does this make Teacher’s cock hard?” “Why don’t you girls kiss each other? Put on a show for Teacher.” Frederick sat on the sofa and stroked his dick while watching us. His cock was rock hard. I couldn’t believe this cheesy half-assed act was working.

With my eye on Frederick, I kissed Laila as I put my hand on her pussy. I could tell immediately from the change in his breath that it drove him crazy.

And it dawned on me. Here we were, two girls he had been jerking off to for years. We were making this man’s fantasy come true. In his eyes we could do no wrong. Everything we did was sexy. He had been waiting for this to happen for who knows how long. We were on a pedestal.

He was so obsessed with me that he was willing to pay for thirty lousy minutes with me.

I was starstruck on myself.

I was starting to enjoy this.

In true porno style, as if it were second nature to us, Laila and I dropped down to our knees in sync and crawled over to him on the sofa. I took his shaft in my mouth while she took the balls. I thought about how many times he had cum thinking about this moment.

Often, I think about the guy on the other side of the screen while I’m shooting. If I’m not particularly fond of my partner for the day, I know I can rely on the idea of the guy at home watching, jerking off to me to get me wet. Right now, right here, this was my favorite part of my job coming to life.

“Teacher, I want to be your favorite student.”

By the time the condom was on and he put his dick in me, I was soaking wet. I screamed like I did in the movies for him. I shook my ass. Laila and I slapped each other around, just like we had done so many times before on camera. Only this time we had a live audience.

Like Laila had said, once we started fucking, it lasted about ten minutes. Like in the scene he was watching earlier, he came on our faces. We went to the bathroom, took turns showering, got our money, and left.

She was right. It was the easiest money I had ever made.

I saw Frederick again, on my own, the next day. We acted out a similar scenario, minus Laila. The sequel felt underwhelming. Maybe because I was alone . . . maybe because the novelty had worn off. Maybe because he wanted me to wear the same outfit as the day before, and it hadn’t been washed. Or maybe it was the fact that he had asked me to fuck without a condom on, which just reminded me of how many girls in this business are fucking their clients raw. It made me sad. It turned me off. I never saw him again. He texts me from time to time, but I never reply. What’s the point? The spark I felt on our initial rendezvous had gone. I had given the guy too much credit. Strike two.

Feeling confident about the gig, but not necessarily needing to experience it again, I told Laila hooking wasn’t my thing. So the next time she mentioned a client, I smiled and told her, “Tell him ten grand.”

I was joking. I never thought someone would pay that much for sex.

But Joe did.

The agreement was that I would meet him for dinner. If I felt uncomfortable in any way, I would walk away right there with a thousand dollars. If I went home with him, I’d get ten grand up front, cash. The holidays were just around the corner. It was an offer I couldn’t turn down.

“I watch about five hours of porn a day,” Joe confessed to me at dinner. His brutal honesty charmed me. Most people would consider this the kind of information you kept hidden on a first date. Then again, this wasn’t a date. Like Frederick, he was kind of handsome. He was the kind of guy I’d like to watch a character-driven documentary on. Nerdy, socially awkward, and though I’m no psychologist, to me he seemed like he could be on the Asperger spectrum. After dinner I was more than thrilled to go back to his place. We stayed up all night and talked. Joe was smart, and I felt like I could listen to him talk forever. He was the kind of guy I could really learn from. I told him I had only hooked once (half true), and we were so enthralled in conversation, we didn’t even get to fucking until five in the morning.

I think the True Romance–ness of it was what drew me in.

After the sex, we took a nap, went out to breakfast, and I drove home. I couldn’t shake him off; I was fascinated by him, his brain, the whole scenario. I romanticized the situation, fantasized what it would be like if he were my Captain-Save-A-Ho.

The next week was Christmas, so my schedule was clear of shoots. Joe took me on a first-class trip to Hawaii. Everything was top-notch. The resort, our suite, our limos, everything. He worked the whole time we were there from his computer but had rented out a cabana for me by the pool for every day we were there. I lounged by the pool, went hiking, explored the resort, and shopped with his money while he worked all day. Then we’d meet up for dinner, fuck in the room after, and stay up late talking. It was perfect.

On the last night, we took a stroll along the beach after another fancy dinner. “How much longer do you want to do porn?” It was happening. The inevitable question. What it translates to is I don’t want to say it now but eventually I will ask you to quit your job for me. Every guy I’ve dated has eventually brought this up; it’s not a matter of if they will, it’s a matter of when.

I imagined what my life would be like if I were with this guy. Could I really give up this life I was living? Sure, he was rich. I’d probably never have to work again. Ultimately, though, I knew what our destiny would be. I’d been down this road before. The first step would be for me to make faraway promises I knew at the bottom of my heart I couldn’t keep. Then when the time came, I’d come to my senses and realize that I wasn’t ready to give up my dream job. We’d argue, both make compromises, only to realize that our relationship would never work because ultimately I need to do what makes me happy, which is porn. We’d part ways and never speak again.

We didn’t fuck that night. I hardly even spoke to him after he asked that question. He knew what my silence meant. The next day we flew back to Los Angeles. We said an awkward goodbye at the airport, and I knew I’d probably never speak to him again.

On the cab drive home, the first song to come on my iPod was “Ho,” by Ludacris. What the fuck. Then I remembered a joke my friend Sebastian had told me a long time ago.

“You don’t pay a hooker to come, you pay a hooker to leave.”

I was the ultimate hooker failure. I didn’t leave. At all. I did just the opposite. I came, over and over. I got emotionally involved and tried to make something out of nothing. Strike. Three.

Excerpted from "Insatiable: Porn -- A Love Story" by Asa Akira. Published by Grove Atlantic. Copyright © 2014 by Asa Akira. Reprinted with permission of the publisher. All rights reserved.

By Asa Akira


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