Mr. President

I consider what he's asking for a moment.

"Fine," I say. "I'll do it. But this will cost you."

134

Ethan

“Am I interrupting?” I ask walking into the casting studio.

“Not at all, sir,” Joel the casting director replies back to me.

It’s been three days since the announcement of the Illicit Escape in Times Square. And wouldn't you know it, within minutes of the fucking announcement our website traffic began to pick up.

But it wasn’t just guys looking to jerk off.

No, these were women.

They began to submit their profiles. Head shots. Body shots.

People started messaging our Facebook Page. They began to send us messages on Twitter and Instagram.

Hell, people even started sending resumes on LinkedIn and messages on KiK. All told, within 24 hours of the fucking announcement we had over 12,000 applicants.

The next 48 hours saw over 25,000 people apply.

Now, it’s important to realize that there are a lot of people who want to get into porn. You wouldn’t believe the slush pile our casting director has. And it’s not just guys. Girls apply probably more than guys. And Cheryl looks through all of them. She watches all the fucking videos and reads all their letters. That’s how dedicated she is.

But at the end of the day, we need a certain girl.

So after a frenzied level of activity that meant literally taking less than half a percent of those that applied, fifty girls were called in, specifically from the New York Tri-State area.

I know they were looking for people with prior experience. We had a couple stars come out of retirement to be a part of this project. But even with experience, we also want a fresh face. A face that doesn’t scream out slut. Because this shit is going to go mainstream. Someone should be able to put on an I.E.—Illicit Escape—in a crowded library and no one should be able to know that they’re watching porn.

I mean, you ever been on an airplane with your kid, and you’re sitting there and the dude next to you has his iPad out and he’s watching two chicks fucking blow a dude? With your son or daughter just sitting there and you’re like what the fuck, right?

Think about how disrespectful that fucker is. Now, if he had an I.E., then he can zap out and you wouldn't have to worry about your kid being exposed to shaved pussies until you know, later on in life when he knows how good fucking feels.

But enough about this shit. I actually came here today because sure, I’m a bit curious as to the quality of these girls that we’re casting.

“We were just going through some exercises to classify the girls, Ethan,” Joel tells me. I nod and sit down.

‘Going through exercises’ means that Joel is looking for ways to separate out the wheat from the chaff.

I sit down on a folding chair in the room across from five couches with fifty girls in various degrees of scantily clad attire. Some girls are sitting there in sweat pants and others are sitting in just a bra and panties. A few are topless, thinking it helps their chances.

Not likely.

“Alright, ladies,” Joel says going through his clipboard. “Let’s give us all sexy faces.”

It’s fucking hilarious how the mood seems to change as fifty girls go from various stages of being bored but trying to look excited, to trying to look smoldering hot. They scrunch their noses, wrinkle their eyes, leave their mouths open, bat their eyelashes, and start breathing heavily.

I scan the girls. Yeah, you heard me; I’m enjoying the fucking view.

I mean, who knows, I could end up fucking one of them.

Fuck, I wouldn’t mind taking my turn through all of them. In fact, a part of me wants to hire them all and bring them over for one night and fuck all of them.

But that would probably end the casting call in disaster. We’d fall behind in our product launch. All for what? Pussy?