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September 02, 2016

Weekend Reading: Sample Asa Akira's 'Dirty Thirty'

Two types of people will thoroughly enjoy Asa Akira's latest book, Dirty Thirty: anybody who’s worked on an adult set, and anyone who’s curious about what it’s like to work on one. Wait a minute—isn’t that pretty much everybody? In her second memoir—the first, Insatiable: Porn—A Love Story (2014) was named a New York Post Book of the Year—the Wicked Pictures contract star gets into the nitty-gritty details of her life, both professional and personal aspects. Like its predecessor, Dirty Thirty is a completely fascinating read. To prove it, here's an excerpt, reprinted with the permission of her pubisher, Cleis Press. The book is available now on Amazon.com.   THREE-WAY   We had finished our last bag of coke, and while we all acted like this was no big deal, it was a big fucking deal. It was 6:00 a.m., the sun was coming up. The five of us sat in Jade’s living room: me, Luca, Tom, Jade, and Jade’s then-boyfriend. I wondered the same thing as every other time I had ever done coke: Why? I don’t even like this stuff. It made me anxious and withdrawn, too nervous to speak for fear of saying something stupid. My friends, on the other hand, loved the drug, and seemed to be doing more and more of it lately, mostly on the weekends. Not that it mattered what day of the week it was; none of us had real jobs. We had all been potheads together through high school, and now that we had graduated, now that we had nothing better to do, other drugs were coming into play. Although I usually avoided it, once in a while I ended up joining in on the coke sessions simply because if there was one thing worse than a coke high, it was being the sober one in a group of people high on coke. The worst part of all was that once I started a drug I didn’t even like in the first place, it was impossibly hard to stop for the rest of the night—which was why, at 6:00 a.m., with the sun coming up, it mattered that we had just done our last bag. Jade’s boyfriend stretched his arms up, faking a yawn. “Wanna go to bed?” he asked his girlfriend. Motherfucker. He was hiding another bag. But what was I gonna do? We were among friends. I wasn’t gonna out the guy. I turned to Luca and Tom. “What are you guys doing now?” “Tom’s staying with me while Bella’s in Greece. Wanna come over? I got Oxys.” Luca smiled. Ah, finally. Some opiates. This was something I could get down with. Bella was Luca’s girlfriend, someone I had yet to meet, despite the fact they had been together for two years. She spent her summers in Greece, this much I knew—it seemed that was the only time any of us saw Luca anymore. We said our awkward goodbyes, and I heard Jade whisper, “Where is it?” as soon as the door closed behind us. Already hot and humid at this early hour, I tried and failed to think of something worse than coming down from coke when the sun was coming up. Hardly speaking, the three of us got into a cab and rode in silence to Luca’s apartment. Luca’s parents were rich, the richest among any of the kids in our group of friends. It had been over a year since he lived with them, but while unspoken, it was obvious that they still supported him. His place had two bedrooms, a luxury in New York City, especially for a young, unemployed couple. We immediately ingested twenty milligrams of Oxycontin each upon arrival and settled down on the sofa in the bedroom Luca shared with his girlfriend—oddly, the only room in the apartment with a television. “I’m cold,” I said—Luca had kept the AC blasting while he was out—and jumped into his bed, under the covers. As we watched some shitty movie and our highs kicked in, all three of us ended up on the bed. It was big enough that we could all be comfortable without touching—I was in the middle with Luca on my right and Tom on my left. I thought back to a story Luca had told me once a few years back, about when he and Tom had gone to Spain and had a threesome with a girl they met. “Her pussy was completely shaved,” he had boasted. “Did she speak English?” I’d asked. “No.” Upon hearing the story, my first feeling was anger. Not toward Luca or Tom, but toward the girl. “She let you do that? What was wrong with her?” I asked. “Nothing, she wanted it!” Luca smiled. “She’s the one who came on to us.” A nice, normal girl seeking a threesome with two guys? No way that was possible. I didn’t believe him. Thinking more about it, I decided I hated her. It wasn’t something I could explain, but I had a black cloud in my heart for this girl, whose name I didn’t know and whose face I’d never seen. The more I thought about her, the darker the cloud grew. Masking my irrational hatred as pity, I’d told Luca, “That’s just sad.” “What are you talking about?” He laughed. “She loved it.” Side by side on the bed, staring blankly at the television, I could see in my peripheral vision that the boys were starting to nod off on either side of me. I thought for a second what it would be like to get fucked by both of them—would it be too awkward? We had been friends for so long; was it too late to spark that kind of emotion? No, I decided. It could be kind of hot. I had tried a threesome with a girl and a guy, and also with two girls. But never two guys—what would it feel like? I had fucked a lot of guys for my young age ... I had been called a slut more times than I could possibly count. Would having two dicks at once be crossing the line? What would people say if they found out? What would my girlfriends think of me if I told them? Fuck. I wanted it. I don’t know what changed in me. Luca had told me the story of the girl in Spain a couple of years before that night, and it wasn’t like I had any reason to change my mind since then. I had fucked around with a bunch of guys in those few years, but nothing special. As I sat there, imagining the different positions they could put me in, I realized what I had felt for the Spanish girl was not hatred, not pity—but jealousy. Being someone who had slept with more guys than most of the girls I knew, I considered myself fairly sexually open. Nothing exceptional, but I knew it was enough for others to talk about me behind my back—it was something I struggled with. Sometimes, it made me feel good. I was a “bad girl,” a girl who didn’t give a fuck what people thought of her, a girl who took what she wanted. Most of the time, though, it made me feel ashamed. Why did I love sex so much? Why did my “number” seem to be growing at a rate four times what other girls’ numbers were? It had been a major source of fights between my first love and me—he could never seem to get over the fact I had fucked more people than he had. Satisfied to be able to put a word to my emotion, I sat in awe of my revelation. It felt good to have an explanation for the black cloud in my gut. I had been envious of the Spanish girl for being able to fuck two guys at the same time. Were things different in her country? Did her girlfriends talk about her when she wasn’t around? Did she have girlfriends? I realized I had been projecting my own insecurities on her. I hated that part of me, the part that wanted sex, the part I constantly felt I needed to hide. Why should she be able to enjoy it, but not me? WHY NOT ME? Fuck it. I turned over onto my stomach, settling the side of my face into the pillow and closing my eyes. Spreading my legs, I started to play footsie with them—my right foot on Tom, my left on Luca. Slowly, I felt a hand creep up the right side of my back. Then one on the left side. It was on. We made out for a long time, me kissing one while the other kissed my neck. Eventually, we were fucking—this was before anal was on the menu, before I even knew what double penetration was, so while one fucked me, I either kissed the other or sucked his dick. They didn’t seem to mind kissing me after the other one’s cock had been in my mouth, and that turned me on. Back and forth, back and forth, they took turns fucking my pussy, fucking my face, and kissing me. It was slow and romantic, the way it always is on opiates. “You look so good getting fucked,” one would say to me, looking me in the eyes. We did this for hours. I should mention here how long a man can last (or can’t cum, depending on how you look at it) on Oxys. I, on the other hand, had lost count of how many orgasms I had. After four hours, we decided to take a smoke break. Popping another Oxy as Tom rolled the blunt, Luca suggested we should order Chinese food, and we did. As we smoked blunts and ate our food, it was as if nothing had happened—we were just hanging out exactly as usual, except we were all naked. After we finished eating, now fully in a food coma, we put the empty containers on the floor and fell asleep. Luca and I awoke a couple of hours later and quietly fucked as Tom slept next to us, and eventually joined us again. We fucked until the sun went down, at which point they came in my mouth, at which point I swallowed, at which point we all knew the big event was over. I took a cab home, and each boy texted me individually how hot the experience had been. That sex changed me forever. I wasn’t the same after it, and I knew I could never go back. It was too good—I had enjoyed myself too much. I had spent years being angry at someone I didn’t even know for being able to experience something I could only secretly dream about—and finally, that night, instead of envying her, I was able to be her. It was so much better to be on this side. I’ve told the story of that night to a few people over the years, but not many, because Bella could never find out. Even in retelling it now, I’ve changed many details so that Luca is unrecognizable. The story usually results in shock and then something along the lines of “You’re so crazy.” They take it as a confession, when I really mean to be bragging. I resent that. Upon hearing about our sex that night, people assume I’m the scandalous one in the equation—much like I initially assumed of the Spanish girl. Luca, Tom, and I—we all did the same thing—fucked someone we wanted to fuck. Somehow, when the boys talk about it, they are just getting laid. When I talk about it, I’ve done something bad. “But don’t you feel guilty that he had a girlfriend?” some will ask. “You fucked him in her bed.” Honestly, no. Maybe that makes me a cold person, but I really don’t think it does. If I had known her, I would have felt ashamed—had she been my friend, or even an acquaintance, I never would have fucked her boyfriend. But I figure that their relationship is his responsibility, not mine. The truth is that I was just fucking two people I wanted to fuck. To automatically assume I’m the heinous one, not Luca, is upsetting. He was the one betraying someone he loved after all. I can’t help but wonder if it’s because I’m a woman. I can’t help but know the answer is yes.

 
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