Interview behind the scenes

I sit down still half undressed, legs apart so the cameras catch everything. Frank leans in with his mic, and the questions start easy—how long I’ve been shooting, who I like to fuck on camera, the usual dance. Then he shifts to real life. I tell him about the boyfriend I left behind, how the breakup landed the same week my flight to L.A. was booked. I was packed and gone before the sheets cooled. Somewhere between the small talk and the laughter I notice the pressure building, that low, warm ache under my belly. Instead of cutting, I stay in the chair. I spread a little wider, tilt my hips, and let it happen right there on the interview seat. The hot stream arcs down, splashes across the leather, soaks my thighs. Frank keeps the mic steady; the sound guy doesn’t flinch. I keep talking through it—about bad decisions and better ones, about new scenes I want to shoot—while the golden puddle spreads beneath me. When it’s over I drag two fingers through the wet and taste them, smiling straight into the lens like the camera and I have a private joke.