Wolf and I walked from the first arrondissement up to Pigalle in the 18th, stood outside the Moulin Rouge (a landmark in the history of sexualized spectacle) and then looked for an hourly hotel.
No such luck. Sex stores full of lingerie made from raschel lace, cheap sex toys, and discount DVDs abounded. Maybe they kept the good stuff in the back? They definitely weren’t handing out recommendations for no tell motels. Whether that was due to lack of nearby existence or my crappy French accent and syntax is debatable.
For two long-term adult performers the district was a bit of a yawn during the day. Yeah, sure, it used to be home to Toulouse-Lautrec, Picasso, and Van Gogh, and it was named after a sculptor. But they’re all gone now. And we needed somewhere visually interesting to fuck in, for the camera.
On a hunch we headed down to Boulevard de Sebastopol. I’d stayed near there earlier in the year. Every morning I’d walked past older women in red lipstick, giant hats, and delightful lingerie covered by long furs. Nothing signifies a sex work zone like people outdoors in underpants and fur coats.
Sure enough, the maps app on my phone turned up an hourly place a few blocks away. I narrowed down the choice of available rooms to three, focusing on what didn’t look like things I already had footage of, and let Wolf take his pick. He went with the Suite Infernale.
It turned out to be a mix between something inspired by Dante’s Inferno and the most death metal Hot Topic has ever been. But it worked with my black lace halter bra and thong, and his leather jock strap. And it had mirrors on the ceiling.
And a window with a blind which could be raised. Not a window to the outdoors, a window to the next room. If there’d been people in that room they could have also raised their blind, resulting in a fairly risk-free act of exhibitionism on both parts—all the fantasy, none of the risk of interaction.
We closed the blind though, because we were there to make porn and nobody (specifically me) wanted to deal with the potential issue of tracking them down later to obtain releases and age verification documentation, much less them spotting the camera and reporting us to management. What with all the posted signs in the lobby and elevator prohibiting commercial sex of any kind.
And then Wolf and I had sex. In an establishment built for interludes of fucking, in a neighborhood with sex workers leaning out of doorways, in Paris.
It was fun. I was definitely feeling my new area of status as a pornographer for the first time. There’s something very different about performing in porn—being a vessel or canvas for the vision of another—and shooting, directing, producing it oneself. My new set of roles felt more stressful but also more fulfilling and more lecherous.
And I loved it.