Sex Toy Tales: Tales

Most people think that just like in my movies, I like my cocks, both real and synthetic, as large and bulging as possible. They think that I am the wildest, craziest, most outrageous chick around, that I'm living out my (and of course their) dreams every single time I walk on a porn set. I know this because I get all kinds of letters, emails with huge attachments filled with photos of impossibly sized toys, ones that strain the imagination and that would surely put even my pussy to shame. Sometimes I'm spotted at the supermarket, despite my disguises, and all the guys want to know what I like to do when I'm alone, as if this insight will help them appreciate my work. I play into it of course—a gal's gotta have some kind of mystique to make it in this business—but when I'm home, when it's just me in the darkness of my huge California king bed, what I look forward to most is some soft pillows beneath my head, some soothing jazz on the radio, and my lipstick.

Yes, my favorite one, it has to be my favorite shade or my favorite brand. No, it's not the Mac one that looks like a cross between a bullet, a tampon and a dildo. It's a brand you may not have heard about, which is just fine with me. My preference is Firecracker's On Fire Red. Firecracker's tubes look almost like any other lipstick, except the outside is a shiny red (of course, I tend to get them looking a bit shinier when I'm done with them). And if you're in the market, they feel wonderfully smooth going on your lips; it's my trademark shade, and I never do a scene or even leave the house without it on my lips, though viewers don't know exactly what it is about the shade that brings that special smile to my lips.

I remember the first time someone slipped a lipstick inside of me. I was young, 19, before I got in the business, and even more so I was gawky and shy. My legs were skinny and wobbly and I dressed to hide, rather than show off, my body. I combed the personal ads looking for a man who might be my destiny, my Mr. Right. It turns out that Derek wasn't that man, not even close, but for one night he took me away from my otherwise boring, timid life and, little did he know, introduced me to the gift that keeps on giving.

We were in his bed, kissing and groping and touching and talking, getting drunk on anticipation, and hearing his dirty words was getting me more aroused than I could ever remember being. We watched one of his porn videos—nothing memorable, just a montage of scenes that cut straight to the point, but it was the first time I'd seen anything like that, and just the image of all that raw flesh, that yearning and fulfillment laid bare, set me off. He licked me all over while I kept my eyes riveted to the screen.

From there I was so turned on I could have come from almost anything, and we returned to bed and resumed our talk, him telling me about the last girl he dated. It wasn't like a normal date where that would've been a no-no, because instead of disgusting me I wanted to hear more. I closed my eyes and he whispered in my ear all the naughty things she liked to do with him ­ go down on him while he was driving, touch herself while out in public, play with toys, with him and by herself. And that's when he did it—slid something small but solid inside of me, and I came like a rocket. He pushed it along with a finger inside and I didn't care what it was, only that it was cold and felt amazing rubbing against me.

It felt like something big, cosmic, magnificent, and when I later found out it was a lipstick I thought it was ingenuous. I mean, who knew something so small and decorative would be up for the task? After we washed it off, I tried it on my lips, and proceeded to smear it all over his body.

That day was a starting point in many ways, and the next night I found myself greedily shoving my Firecracker (young and awkward as I was, at least I had the lipstick thing right) inside me, needing to feel that release again and again, freeing my mind and body to new and delicious possibilities. As I grew out of my late blooming awkward stage I started to get more gutsy and precocious. The next boyfriend was a biker and the one after that an amateur filmmaker and between the two they set me off on my current path. I don't let everyone in on my secrets; in the industry I'm known as the Take-It-All Girl—I've had almost everything imaginable inside me, and come from it too. I can take a lot, and like it, but when it's just me, I am back in Derek's bed, innocent and nervous and unbearably aroused, and when I tease myself, slipping the small metal container in and out of the first inch of my pussy, rubbing it along my clit, sometimes leaving it in the fridge to chill first, I still come like a rocket, or a firecracker.