Nothing Profound
Chris Zeischegg

I'm nineteen and living with my friend, Corey, in a suburb just outside of Santa Cruz, California. We both attend community college and live off our parent's money and savings from high school. Neither of us want jobs, but we apply for them anyways. We know the financial umbilicus is about to be cut.

After a month of unemployment, I attend a seminar on how to sell knives and tupperware for a company that exploits student workers. But even I can tell it's a scam.

Eventually I succumb to scanning Craigslist for one-time gigs, something to tide me over. Most everything requires prior experience, but I stumble across an opportunity for a novice like me.

I make a phone call that leads me to a loft overlooking Folsom Street in San Francisco. A man greets me inside. He's tall and blond, like me, but older and a bit larger in the gut. He tells me he's an advertising agent. This is just a hobby he tends to in his spare time.

The man asks what my background is, how long I've been a model. I give him an answer that requires no proof. “I've done some stuff for life drawing classes.” If he can tell that I'm lying, he doesn't show it. Or he doesn't care.

Taking off my clothes in front of the man is easier than I'd thought. He takes pictures of me near a window, standing first, and then sitting in various positions. I try to appear brooding and intense, but when he shows me the pictures, I just look... naked.

The man tells me that I'm beautiful, a word no one else has used to describe my body. If he's lying, I actually don't care. It's just the type of flattery I need to be coaxed into jerking off in front of a complete stranger.

He doesn't ask me to cum because this is supposed to be art. But I feel, I don't know, special or something. I'm only getting paid fifty dollars to be here, but it's fifty dollars for someone to basically just look at me.

I still spend the next month stealing condiments from fast food restaurants because I can't afford to go shopping. But I also start to get really used to the idea of being naked for money. Or for art. It's just that most of the artists I come across prefer the look of me with an erection. So by the time I'm offered my first porn gig, I almost don't see the difference. I've already got the erection. I just need to stick it in something.

Or something needs to stick itself in me.


“So yeah, I was wondering about that. Should I, like, take a laxative the night before?”

“No, no, don't do that,” says the voice on the other line. “That's about the worst thing you can do. You want to go to your local supermarket and pick up a pack of disposable enemas.”


“There's a solution in there that acts like a laxative but you want to dump it out, okay?”

“Yeah, no problem,” I say, making a mental note.

“Fill the enema back up with lukewarm water and rinse yourself out about three or four times the night before. Then you can do it again before your shoot.”

“Three or four times and then again before my shoot,” I repeat.

“You got it. As for your wardrobe, we're going to need you to bring some casual outfits and a few collared shirts.”

“To be honest, most of the clothes I own are band shirts and jeans,” I tell her with some embarrassment.

“Okay, well, just bring a few options.”

“Of course.”

“You're going to be working with Yasmine Birne. She's a pornstar from LA. Really cute. You'll like her.”

“Cool,” I say like it's no big deal.

“You got the rest of the info, right?”

I repeat the address and call time back to her and say goodbye. Then I do a Google search for Yasmine Birne and call my roommate in to look at her pictures. He laughs and tells me he can't believe I'm doing this.

Monday morning, I drive about an hour to reach the studio in San Francisco. The outside of the structure is unassuming and blends into the surrounding commercial environment. Inside, I take the elevator to the third floor and walk out into a large, dark room, illuminated primarily by computer monitors and the blinking lights of electronic equipment. The woman at the front desk greets me with a smile and asks if my name is Daniel. I nod and she tells me to have a seat. Someone else offers me a drink.

I sign my name on several pieces of paper including a photo copy of my IDs and the negative results of my STD test. Then I'm escorted back towards the elevator, which shuttles me down to the basement.

There, I stumble onto a set where the walls look bled or rusted and the props spare. It's like something that would show up in an Eli Roth film a year later. A woman with an Australian accent introduces herself as Domina. She's directing this piece of smut and right now she's helping my co-star slip into a tight, latex nurse outfit. I recognize the girl from the pictures on the Internet. Her tits are even out, which makes her all the more familiar. She introduces herself as Yasmine and sounds just like I imagine from a southern-California girl: bubbly with a youthful, high-pitched voice.

“So you do this a lot?” I ask her, which is stupid because I already know the answer. But I think I just want her to admit it to me. She says something which means yes,, and then asks the same question back. “This is, uh, my first time,” I reply.

“You always put me with the virgins,” she says to Domina.

The director's response is snarky, which makes me feel even more out of place. It's like we're trading make-out stories in middle school and I've got none to share.

“You've got a piercing in your cock, yeah?” asks Domina. I nod. “How do you feel about electricity?”

“I've never tried it before.”

Domina tells me not to worry. I have a safe word if the pain's too much to handle and if I act like it hurts, she won't turn up the voltage too high. Still, the thought of any electricity passing through the glans of my penis is worrisome. But I'm a good sport and will try about anything once.

The camera rolls and I walk into what is now deemed a medical office to find Yasmine cleaning the counters with a dirty rag and a fresh wad of saliva. My improvised line is, “What the fuck are you doing?” She assures me it's standard procedure and moves on to the formal questioning.

“Do you have any insurance?”

I don't. I also have zero cash and have never applied for a credit card. This upsets Yasmine more than one might expect. Apparently, she's an opponent of health-care reform. To demonstrate her position, she ties me to a chair with rubber hosing and shoves her tits up in front of my face.

“Good, good,” says the director.

We break before the next sequence so that I can get completely undressed and Domina can attach an alligator clip to the side of my ampallang. She misses at first, and the metal teeth bite into my cock. When I’ve finished complaining, and the pain has subsided, she continues, this time securing the device so that it firmly grips the ball on one end of my piercing, and nothing else.

The electric shock is about as terrible as I imagined, and I decide to never try it again. But we've already started shooting the sequence so I agree to the smallest charge possible and do my best to bear it. Yasmine eases the pain by jerking me off until I cum and then we move on to something else.

There's some whipping and slapping involved, and eventually I'm tied chest down to a metal table with wheels. I wear a ball gag in my mouth but still have the safe word, “Unh, Unh,” if anything gets out of hand.

Yasmine fingers my ass to warm me up and tells me that I'm clean. It relaxes me to know I won't be shitting on camera, and so I take her rubber cock with ease. She fucks me neither hard nor gentle, but I squirm and strain the muscles in my face. The more I look like I'm being raped, the less she has to try.

Sometime mid-stroke, I feel the dildo pull out from my ass, giving way to a crashing sound. Domina starts to laugh and all attention is diverted towards my co-star, who apparently needs help getting off the ground. I'm still tied to the table so I can't see what happened. But I'm told she slipped in a puddle of lube and landed on her back.

Thankfully, Yasmine's not seriously injured. The worst she has to worry about is ending up on Domina's private spoof collection. But it's okay. No one takes themselves seriously here anyways. It's nothing artistic, nothing profound. Just porn. We get through the rest of the shoot, which isn't much, and go our separate ways.

A week later, I'm back in my hometown, practicing for one of my band's last shows. I get a call asking if I'll go to the Napa Valley for a few days to get dominated and fucked. They tell me one of Domina's guys bailed last minute and she needs a replacement. They also offer me a price that amounts to more than I've ever made in a month. It's not a hard decision to make.

When all the coffee shops and book stores finally get back to me about my applications, I politely tell them to fuck off. If I'm going to kiss someone's ass for a living, I'd rather it not be a figure of speech.

Click here to read the rest of issue 198

About the Author
Christopher Daniel Zeischegg is a writer, filmmaker, and pornographer living in Los Angeles, California. He has his BA in Cinematic Arts from the University of Southern California, has performed in over three hundred adult films, and his work has been published in multimedia journals such as Angelingo and featured in exhibits such as OUTERfest.

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