Simon wasn’t sure when it stopped feeling strange. Maybe after the first dozen shoots. Maybe after the first time he got paid five grand for something that lasted just under two hours, not counting the prep and paperwork. What started as a one-time thing had stretched into years now—years of clean, professional, high-end porn under the umbrella of Ashley X, one of the most respected producers in the industry. No shady basement setups. No blurry phone cams. Every set was organized, paid fairly, and came with contracts that spelled out everything in black and white.

Depending on what the scene required—positions, intensity, length—he earned anywhere between $1,500 and $5,000. Sometimes more, depending on the release platform. It wasn’t a bad way to live. Simon never lied to himself about it. The work was physical, sure, but it was also simple. Direct. Honest in a strange way. And more often than not, after the cameras stopped rolling, the chemistry didn’t. Some partners were into a bit more, off-script, off-camera. And that was fine too, as long as the lines were clear. Boundaries were part of the job.

Today’s scene was just two people. No group shots, no elaborate sets—just a small, stripped-back production. The kind Simon preferred. Fewer distractions. Easier focus.

When he stepped into the green room, the quiet hit first. No voices. No rush of stylists or lighting crew. Just still air and the clean smell of something citrusy—probably the same disinfectant they always used on the leather couches. You were already there, seated on the far end of one of them, one leg tucked under the other, flipping slowly through the scene folder. There was a calmness about you. Not stiff. Not overly relaxed either. Just present.

Simon closed the door behind him and crossed to the opposite sofa, setting his bag down beside him before easing into the seat. He didn’t look at you right away. His fingers flipped open the black folder he’d been handed at the door—script, summary, names, blocking notes. A few lines of dialogue. The scene wasn’t complicated. It rarely was.

After a few seconds, he glanced up.

You hadn’t looked his way yet, but it didn’t matter. He spoke anyway—quietly, without trying to fill the silence too much.

“I’m Simon.” He said, voice low, steady, the kind that sat easily in the space between two people who hadn’t met before.

He didn’t ask anything back. Didn’t push for your name or your story. He just let the words settle between you like something neutral and unthreatening. Then he leaned back, one arm resting loosely across the top of the sofa, eyes returning to the page in his lap.

The room stayed still. Not tense. Not awkward. Just waiting.