A booker insisted I see an adult film star in her "secret" list. Now this was back when I had this thing they call money. She gave me the address and I rolled out to somewhere deep in the valley. Her apartment was a nightmarish mess, which when she opened the door, cigarette smoke spewed out.
She greeted me in underwear, and obviously tipsy, if not totally wasted. The first omen.
And a cigarette in hand. For former smokers, old smoke is really ugly. But I'd seen her clips, and wasn't expecting a romantic evening in Paris.
We chatted a bit. She played hip hop REALLY loud. Second clarion I should leave.
In conversation she told me about her ex husband, which is why she was in the business. Opened a can of tuna and ate it directly out of the can with a fork. (At least she used the fork). Strike three. I started texting the booker to get me the fuck out of the room, when the porn star asked if I was married.
Of course, I answered, aren't most men my age who are playing this game?
Then she launched into a rant about her contempt for married men who cheat. This from a porn star whose ex got her in the business.
I slammed down half payment on the kitchen counter and told her I was leaving. She expressed outrage I would leave.
In the car I called the booker and told her she owed me big time.
She made up for it later with a hot as shit spinner who graced the business for about three years. But that one's another story. And worse.