The Greatest Lie Part 9

Two hours after saying goodbye to Rick and Randy, Tran and I left Minneapolis and boarded a plane to LA. I fell asleep at take off, and woke as the plane began its descent. Tran was staring out the window at the city’s lights spread in an endless shimmering galaxy below. "Wow, I love LA already," she exclaimed. She was right: viewed from the air on a clear night, LA is a gorgeous vista of stars, like heaven mirrored on the earth. Up close, some of those stars are ugly and dangerous. And we were about to enter one of LA’s dirtiest secret worlds: the San Fernando Valley porn industry: the sinister, sleazy cousin of Hollywood.

We were met at the gate by a silent driver holding a sign marked "Rios". Wordlessly, he put our carry-on bags onto a luggage cart, picked up our checked baggage, and took us too a stretch limo parked in the red zone. He opened the door and motioned for us to get in. "Welcome to LA," a Russian-accented voice commented from within. "You must be our newest stars." I feigned a shiver, jiggling my boobies provocatively. "Good to be here. It’s freezing in Minneapolis," I replied. The limo took off. "We’re going to the studio for a read through. You hungry? Thirsty? Want some coke?" He produced a dusty mirror with four lines of coke, the smudged, dusty residue of several others, and a tightly rolled hundred. Tran looked at me, uncertain. Wanting to go with the flow, and still slightly groggy with sleep, I said "Sure, thanks," and snorted both lines. My eyes watered as the menthol crystals blasted my sinuses. I hadn’t had cocaine for months, and rarely so strong and pure as these lines. Soon Tran and I were animated and vivacious.

"So what are you, the director or an actor?" I asked. He was a burly, bearded Russian migr whose dancing eyes were framed by broad cheekbones and dark, thick eyebrows.

Before our host could answer, Tran said "You good looking enough to be actor, but how big is your cock? Can we see it?"