What I Did to Avoid Going Back to My Parents’ House

I was twenty-two when the scholarship ran out and the university stopped being my home. I had two months left before graduating in tourism, but the problem of rent weighed more than any final exam. To calm myself down, I went for walks along the campus paths every day, between buildings that would soon stop belonging to me.

It was on one of those walks that Andrés appeared.

He was tall, with a sharp jaw and that easy smile men have when they almost never hear no. He came up to me without hesitation.

—Sorry to interrupt you. My name is Andrés. I’m twenty-nine and I work as a model.

I shook his hand without much enthusiasm.

—Mia. Tourism. Twenty-two.

—Are your parents from Korea?

—Yes. I was born here.

He looked me up and down without hiding it.

—Why is a pretty girl like you walking around campus alone?

—Because I prefer my own company.

He laughed.

—Would you let me keep you company anyway?

I didn’t say no. We walked for an hour, and something about the direct way he spoke turned out to be less annoying than I’d expected. In the weeks that followed, we ran into each other almost every day, and what began as coincidence turned into a habit.

A month later, when I told him that finishing my degree meant losing my room on campus and that I had nowhere to go, Andrés frowned. I explained that I had only managed to get sporadic jobs and that at this rate I’d have to go back to the city where my parents lived. He listened without interrupting.

—The agency I work with is looking for girls —he said—. Swimsuit modeling. If you want, I’ll introduce you.

—I’ve never modeled.

—For that you don’t need experience. Just the body you have.

It was an out. Not one I would have chosen under other circumstances, but money doesn’t leave much room for pride.

—Take me.

***

The agency operated out of a mansion on the outskirts of the city. That first afternoon, the director watched me for several minutes with the look of someone appraising a piece of merchandise before asking me to take off my dress. I hesitated. Andrés was beside me.

—It’s just to assess proportions —the director said—. That’s how everyone works here.

I stayed in my underwear. The director asked me to turn, to stop, to look at him straight on. He had me pull down my bra so he could see my tits and check that I had no marks. He asked Andrés to help me hold the cups while he came closer to take measurements with a tape against my bare skin. I felt the tape brushing my nipples, hard from the air conditioning, and tried not to move a muscle in my face. Then he spoke to Andrés as if I weren’t in the room.

—Looks good to me. Come back tomorrow for the photo tests.

The next day I arrived nervous and they took me straight to makeup. A woman about forty explained with complete normality that I had to trim the hair on my pussy for the bikini and did it without any preamble, with my legs open on a treatment table, as if it were part of any office job. I suppose for her it was. She left me almost bare, with a narrow strip of trimmed hair that barely covered anything.

The first sessions were in the mansion’s pool. Different-brand bikinis, in and out of the water. I posed with the same concentration I’d had during my final exams. Until one Friday I got into the water wearing a white thong and, when I came out, noticed the wet fabric had turned transparent. The pink of my pussy could be seen clearly through the cloth, the lips outlined, the groove the soaked swimsuit drew over my skin.

I froze on the pool’s last step.

—Come up slowly —ordered the photographer—. Slowly, like that. Let everything show.

I climbed out. I felt the flashes firing right over my crotch, capturing every millimeter of the transparent fabric stuck to my pussy. The photographer told me to touch my hair, to arch my back, to push my tits forward. My nipples stood hard under the wet top. Andrés was in a corner of the set and when our eyes met I nodded to myself. When it was over I signed the receipt, took the money, and said nothing on the ride back.

That week I moved into Andrés’s apartment. As roommates, he made that clear from the start. He had his room and I had mine.

***

Nearly a month went by in that quiet arrangement when one afternoon, while I was reading on the couch, Andrés looked at me differently.

—You could make much more —he said.

—Doing what?

—Nude photos. Then video, if you want.

—Porn?

—First erotica. Just showing yourself. Then whatever you decide.

—What’s the practical difference between one and the other?

—Erotica is posed, no contact. Porn is actually fucking on camera, yeah, but like any other job: you do it, you get paid, and you leave it there.

I looked at him steadily.

—Do you do it?

—For two years now. That’s why I have an apartment, a car, and some savings.

I didn’t answer right away. I kept staring at the pages of the book without really reading them. I thought about the résumés nobody answered, about the balance in my checking account, about the face my mother would make if I came home empty-handed.

—Let me think about it —I said at last.

I thought about it for weeks while I kept sending out job applications that disappeared unanswered. The conclusion came on its own, on a Tuesday night with nothing in particular happening.

—If you’re there on set when we do it —I told him—, I’ll do it.

He kissed me on the cheek.

—I’ll be there.

***

The nude casting was in a room in the mansion. They told me to undress slowly while the cameras recorded. I obeyed with the same determination with which one gets into cold water: all at once, without thinking too much. They laid me on the bed on my stomach first, ass in the air and knees apart, then on my back, and the director kept giving instructions as if he were organizing a move: bend your knees, put the soles of your feet on the sheet, spread your pussy with your hands.

I obeyed. I opened the lips of my pussy with two fingers while three men came closer to look. One asked me to put a finger inside and I did. When I pulled it out, it glistened wet under the light of the lamp, and they seemed to like that.

Someone commented that my skin was very white. Another said my hip angles were good. A third said my pussy looked very narrow and pink, almost virginal, and that it would work very well on screen. Another asked me to turn over and spread my ass open with both hands. I did. I felt the camera come so close it almost touched me.

They were work comments. I kept repeating that to myself while I waited.

That same week the director called me into his office.

—The owner wants to film you in a full scene. Fuck all the way, with the cum shot on your face. —He paused—. We can pair you with Andrés, if that makes it easier.

He explained the scene in full detail: a student who can’t pay the rent, a landlord who agrees to another form of payment. Short dialogue, a chair, a bed, and a specific ending that had to be captured in close-up.

—All right —I replied.

They took me to get my makeup done and put on a short ivory nightgown, with no panties underneath. When I walked onto the set with the crew around me and Andrés in the back talking to the cameraman, the nerves in my stomach changed nature. They stopped being fear and became something more like concentration.

Andrés at work was different from Andrés in the apartment. Confident, precise, with no visible discomfort. When he got naked I understood why he’d been doing this for two years: he had an imposing body and a thick, long cock, still half-hard, hanging against his thigh. I didn’t have to fake my reaction. My mouth watered before the director shouted “action.”

The scene began with him seated in the chair and me kneeling between his legs, begging him for the rent. He grabbed the back of my neck and shoved my face against his dick.

—You’re going to have to pay me another way, slut. Open your mouth.

I sucked him slowly at first, licking the head with the tip of my tongue, feeling him get harder between my lips. Then I took him all the way in. Andrés held my head with both hands and started fucking my mouth at his pace, until tears sprang to my eyes and my mascara began running down my cheeks. Saliva overflowed and dripped in sticky strands onto my tits. The director asked for close-ups of my mouth full, of his cock shining wet, of his ass tightening with each thrust.

He yanked me up by the hair and threw me onto the bed on my back. He spread my legs in one quick motion and buried his face between my thighs. He licked my pussy with his tongue flattened, from bottom to top, stopping at the clit to suck on it with his lips. I grabbed his head and pushed against his mouth, moaning for real. When he slid two fingers into me while still sucking my clit, the first orgasm ran through my spine like a jolt. I didn’t have to act.

—Ask for it —he said, looking up at me from below, his mouth shining with my juices.

—Put it in me —I answered—. Put it all the way in, please.

He straightened up, grabbed his cock with one hand, and laid it against the entrance to my pussy. He rubbed it up and down over my wet lips, teasing, until he pushed the head inside. I arched. It was thick and came in forcing its way. He drove it all the way in with one thrust and we both moaned at the same time. The director asked for an overhead shot of the open pussy devouring the cock.

He fucked me hard, gripping my hips for leverage. Then he turned me over, put me on my knees with my face against the mattress and my ass raised, and shoved it in from behind again. In that position I felt him hit deep, against a place that made me clench my fists in the sheet. Andrés slapped my ass. Then again. He grabbed my hair and pulled my head back.

—Tell me you like it.

—I like it. Harder. Harder, Andrés.

We changed positions three more times. Riding him, feeling him squeeze my tits from below. On my side, with one leg lifted. On my back again, with my legs over his shoulders and him driving it into me to the very depth. I came twice more, once so hard the cameraman let out a low laugh behind the light.

—I’m going to finish —Andrés said.

—On the face —the director reminded him—. Close your open mouth, Suki.

I knelt on the floor and he stood over me, jerking himself off with hard strokes. His cock gleamed wet from my pussy. When he came, the first spurts of semen hit my forehead and cheek, and the last filled my half-open mouth and neck. I stuck out my tongue to show what remained, as the director had instructed me before we started. Andrés rested the head of his cock on my lips and I moved it with my tongue to clean it.

We worked for almost two hours in total. There were cuts to adjust the lighting, to apply lubricant, to change the camera angle. I closed my eyes when I could and focused on the physical, letting sensation take control. It did. When the scene was over, the director said it had been perfect and handed me an envelope with more money than I’d earned the previous month.

The stage name was the director’s idea. Suki. Short, exotic, easy to pronounce in any language.

***

Over the following months I filmed other videos.

With Valentina, a blonde girl with a calm gaze who, when it was over, came over and whispered in my ear that she had genuinely enjoyed working with me. The lesbian scene was different from what I’d imagined: slower, more attentive, without the urgency I’d felt in work with men. We kissed for a long time on the bed, her on top of me, her small tits brushing mine. Then she went lower with her mouth, sucking my nipples one by one until they were swollen and hard. When she got to my pussy, she opened it with her thumbs and licked it with a patience I had never felt before, drawing circles on my clit with the tip of her tongue, taking her tongue deep inside me, then sucking on top again. I came in her mouth twice before we changed positions.

Then it was my turn. I knelt between her legs and gave her exactly what she had given me. Her pussy tasted different from mine, and I felt her trembling every time I closed my lips over her clit. We finished in sixty-nine, faces buried in each other’s pussies, moaning against each other’s flesh. Then we used a double dildo the props guy brought out. We sat back to back, each with one half inside, and moved like we were fucking each other. The director asked for that overhead shot for a long time. When it was over, I wasn’t quite sure what I’d felt, but my body was tired in a very specific way.

With Marcus, a man nearly two meters tall with an athlete’s build and a calm way of speaking that contrasted with everything else. When I saw him naked on set, I stood there staring longer than I should have. He had a black cock, thick, considerably longer than Andrés’s. The director had to tell me twice that the camera was rolling. I knelt in front of him and tried to suck him off. It wouldn’t fit all the way, not even half. I licked along the sides, kissed his balls, took the head into my mouth and sucked with everything I had. He held my hair gently and kept pushing me a millimeter at a time deeper.

The first penetrations hurt for real. I was lying on my back with my legs lifted and he slid it in slowly, stopping every centimeter so I could adjust. When he finally got all the way in, I felt as if he had gone straight through me. Then it stopped hurting and began to produce something else, deeper, harder to ignore. When he turned me over and fucked me doggy-style, he hit the bottom with every thrust and I ended up biting the pillow so I wouldn’t scream too loudly. I had orgasms I tried to hide and couldn’t fully. Marcus came inside me, filling my pussy with semen that then ran down my thighs as he withdrew slowly. The camera kept rolling on that shot for a full minute. When it ended, Marcus helped me stand up and said very quietly, “You’re a very brave girl, Suki.”

With César, a Latin actor with a muscular body and a good attitude, in a threesome with another girl from the agency. Three bodies, two cameras moving constantly, instructions coming from outside the frame. The two of us started by sucking César off, licking his cock from opposite sides, joining our mouths over the head. Then he fucked me from the front while the other girl ate my ass from behind, spreading my cheeks with her hands and slipping her tongue into me. We switched: she sat on César’s face and I sat on his cock, face to face with the other girl, kissing above his body. At one point he double-penetrated me: one cock in my pussy, his fingers slick with lube in my ass, first one, then two, then three. He came over both of us at once, splattering our tits. It was the longest and most technically complicated session I’d had up to then. I finished exhausted.

I also shot a group scene with four actors. Andrés was one of them. They used me in every hole at once: a cock in my mouth, one in my pussy, one in my ass, and my hands jerking off the two left free. They rotated me between them for an hour and a half. Andrés fucked me when his turn came as if he didn’t know me, without looking me in the eyes. The four of them ended up coming on me, turning me over together and leaving me covered in semen from forehead to navel. That night, back in the apartment, we didn’t talk about what had happened.

I learned things on those shoots. That sex in front of a camera has more pauses than real action, more logistics than passion. That the men you work with always say something kind when they finish, in a low voice, almost to themselves. That the body responds even when the mind is thinking about the camera angle or the back pain of staying in one forced position too long. That you can leave the set with an irritated pussy, thighs sticky with another man’s cum, knees marked, and not process what just happened until much later, in the shower, with hot water running over your shoulders.

***

One Saturday night, after Andrés congratulated me for handling a complicated scene with a new actor, I asked him the thing I’d been wanting to ask for months.

—Do you have girls? Outside of work, I mean.

He looked at me for a moment before answering.

—No.

—What do you mean, no?

—I’m very shy about that. At work no one can reject you. Outside they can.

—And is there anyone you like?

He nodded, standing up.

—Good night, Mia.

He went into his room and I stayed on the couch with the beer in my hand and the answer I’d been missing.

***

Weeks later, while we were having dinner, I told him I had enough money now to look for my own apartment.

He didn’t answer. He nodded once and kept eating.

That same night, much later, I heard my bedroom door open. Andrés turned on the bedside lamp. He stood by the bed, looking at me without saying anything for several seconds.

—You don’t have to leave —he said at last.

—Andrés…

—You don’t have to leave —he repeated.

I looked at him. His hands were at his sides and there was something in his posture I didn’t know: the stiffness of someone about to do something that terrified him.

—Are you telling me you want to stay with me? —I asked.

He didn’t answer with words. He sat slowly on the edge of the bed, brought his face close to mine, and waited. I was the one who closed the distance.

The kiss was long and unlike anything that had happened between us in front of a camera. It had a different temperature, a different intention. There were no framing requirements or angles to hold. He touched me slowly, with a tenderness that had nothing mechanical about it, and that was what unsettled me most.

He unbuttoned my sleep shirt one button at a time, kissing my skin as he uncovered it. When he went down my neck and reached my tits, he sucked them with an attention that had nothing to do with cameras: unhurried, without thinking about shots, lingering on each nipple until I arched against his mouth. When he went lower and opened my legs and used his mouth between my thighs, I let out the breath I’d been holding for a long time. He licked my pussy slowly, as if it were the first time he’d ever done it, stopping on my clit without the theatrical urgency of shoots. I clutched the sheets and let what had to happen happen. I came in his mouth almost without realizing it, in a long, quiet wave unlike anything before.

He climbed back up my body kissing my belly, my navel, my breasts again. When he entered me, he did it looking into my eyes. He sighed. His cock, the same one I’d seen going into so many pussies in front of so many cameras, now moved inside me without any external rhythm, without anyone calling for shots, with no urgency but ours. He fucked me slowly, deeply, his forehead pressed to mine. Then he said my name, the real one. Not “Suki.” “Mia.”

—Mia. Mia.

I wrapped my legs around his waist and held him tight against me. He sped up a little, not too much. The bed creaked under our weight. His hands held my face, his thumbs stroking my cheeks. The orgasm was different from the ones at work. Slower to arrive, deeper when it did, harder to process afterward. I dug my nails into his back and felt him come inside me with a muffled groan against my neck, not pulling out, not separating, leaving everything where it belonged this time. When it was over, he brushed my hair off my face with his fingers and said:

—I love you, Mia.

I tensed.

—Even after everything you’ve seen?

—This is the first time I’ve seen you make love —he replied without hesitation.

I stayed silent. He held me from behind and turned off the light.

***

The jealousy came without warning. Watching him work with another actress made me feel a discomfort that hadn’t existed before. The same thing happened to him: I noticed it in his silences after certain scenes, in the way he looked at me when he came off set without saying anything.

We talked about quitting. Not just once, but several times, until the conversation stopped being hypothetical.

Andrés used his savings to open a mechanic’s shop in another city. I got a job at a hotel chain using the degree it had taken me four years to finish. We moved in together, without cameras, without directors, without stage names.

I’m twenty-nine now. Five years married to Andrés and a pregnancy that came without much planning. There are moments when some hotel guest looks at me in a particular way, with that recognition that never quite turns into words.

It doesn’t bother me. It was work, like Andrés always said.

The difference is that now I know what the rest is.