Decker's Wood
Authors: Kirsty Dallas
Decker’s Wood
KIRSTY DALLAS
My ‘because’ novel…
I wrote this book because -
Because everyone needs a book they can read with a smile!
Because Texan accents rock!
Because country is cool!
Because porn stars are people too!
Just, because!
COVER IMAGE
Photographer – L.G Abraham
Graphic Artist – Sandy Abraham
Model –
Luke Williams
Cosmetic Artist –
Angela Prothero
EDITING AND FORMATTING
Copyright © 2014 Kirsty Dallas
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, including electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. While writing this book I broke out in a sweat on the odd occasion. Not an ugly man sweat with saturated pits, but a delicate perspiration on my brow. One day I even kicked my toe on the corner of my desk and it bled, causing me to cry (just a little). I wrote this book and literally gave it my very own BLOOD, SWEAT AND TEARS, so don’t steal it... Quote it if you wish, tell your friends about it, create shit-hot trailers and teasers (I love those), just please, DON’T STEAL IT!!
DECKER
Have you ever reached that point in your life where you look around and everything just seems gloomy and morose? When colors turn grey and all you see is boring monotony? And dirty laundry. I was tired, I was miserable, and I had finally reached the point where I no longer cared about anything, including laundry. The world felt tedious and dull, my head constantly ached, I drank too much, and I couldn’t bother to work out. My apartment was trashed. I had stopped wearing underwear weeks ago because of the aforementioned laundry situation. I sniffed my armpit; I think I smelled funky too. The soft tinkle of feminine laughter spilled from down the hallway. Oh, and did I mention I was completely and utterly done with sex? I was sick to death of the sight of it, the feel of it, and the smell of it; I was outsexed, done, timeout boys, Decker Steele is throwing a tantrum. I was officially putting myself out to pasture. At thirty-two-years of age, I was taking myself off the damn menu!
I’ve had sex in every position conceivable and a few very unconceivable positions. I have methodically worked my way through the Karma Sutra and that, my friends, has some impressive feats amongst its covers. I’ve had twosomes, threesomes, foursomes, even five and sixsomes. I’ve had sex on beds, couches, tables, cars, pools, saunas, weight benches, hospital beds, and beaches; in fact, it might be easier to list the places I haven’t screwed. I glanced around the room and shrugged. Nah, nothing came to mind, I’d fucked everywhere. I’m not bragging, but it is what it is. As a porn star, I have accumulated more notches on my bed post than most social man-whores would in a lifetime. At one time, I had liked sex—hell, I loved sex—and I was good at it. But somewhere during my illustrious career, something had gone horribly wrong. After twelve years in the porn industry, I have seen so much pussy, I am ashamed to say I am tired of it. Maybe I had poked one too many girls and was turning into one now. I had considered the possibility I was gay, but that isn’t the case. I had spent enough time around naked men and meat whistles to know that wasn’t my chosen dish. The simple fact was, the power of the pussy had lost its effect on me. What the hell was I supposed to do now? Give
up sex? Keep up the pill popping and continue to contribute that perfected false enthusiasm and pitiful moans of faux enjoyment?
A year ago I had beaten every land speed record in New York as I raced to get to my ever faithful doctor to the porn stars, Dr. Alfie. Many tests later, he assured me my sudden inability to get it up was psychological. I’d laughed and gone in search of a second opinion. When that doctor referred me to a psychologist, blaming my erectile malfunction on my head—and not the one in my pants—I had chuckled nervously. When a third doctor suggested that I had become so conditioned to unattached, unemotional sex, my body had actually started to reject it, I collapsed under the weight of shock. I had literally screwed myself into insanity. Well done, Decker Steele. So, my body wanted to reject sex? Okay, like any red blooded male, I could ignore the problem with the best of them. But how does one simply ignore their flaccid member? You can’t! Any guy will tell you, a problem with the junk is as good as the end of the world! I became a Viagra junkie. Seriously, I couldn’t go to work without one. Worried about the long lasting effects the drug might have on my body, I turned in my acting career for directing. A year later, I was still dipping into the medicinal cabinet to get an occasional social hard-on. I was doing my best to keep my little—scratch that—fucking massive, secret quiet. It wasn’t unusual for Viagra to be used in this industry. In fact, it was unusual for it not to be used. Viagra and other performance enhancing drugs, like cocaine, was commonplace. The industry no-no drug, Alprostadil, injected into the penis, was becoming disturbingly more accepted. How any man could willingly bring himself to stick a needle in his manhood was completely unacceptable in my book. Yeah, the porn industry wasn’t all pretty bows and ribbons. I had garnered a reputation as being one of those elusive enigmas left in the porn world who could get it up without medicinal help. Well, until recently anyway. While the P.A.—Pornography Association—was begging me to get back in the saddle, I had used every excuse feasible to get out of it. The Adult Video Association’s recipient of the Male Performer of the Year award, four times running, was living a lie. And to top it off, I was depressed and pissed off. I was a moody fucker that my friends were going to great lengths to avoid.
I ran a hand over the rough stubble on my face. I didn’t usually let it get this long—it bothered the girls when I went down on them—I was too tired to be bothered shaving though. I was sick to death of sex; I couldn’t even bring myself to stand behind a camera anymore. Apparently there are only so many fake orgasms a man can handle listening to. And, I shit you not, standing around twenty minutes while your male lead jacks off so you can get the ever important cum shot gets old pretty damn fast.
I watched the two girls walk from my suite. Well, not everyone found my cantankerous persona a problem. These girls actually got off on the heated aggression I had brought to the bedroom.
They were fully clothed now, relaxed, sated, and ready to start their day. They were beautiful, one with blonde hair, one with dark hair, both with big tits, little waists, big lips. No inhibitions. Probably every guy’s wet dream, but like I have previously mentioned, I’m dead in that department. Not even an attractive woman could make my dick stir anymore. I saw to their needs during the night though; no way am I ruining my reputation by not putting on a standing ovation worthy performance. But it took that little damn fucking pill to get a big fucking boner. I glanced down at my half hard dick. It was actually sore. The drug was finally beginning to wear off, ten hours later. I didn’t think it was possible, but I had screwed myself into exhaustion, mentally and physically. I still couldn’t bring myself to waste an opportunity to at least try. The girls showed up on my doorstep, and I was apprehensive, though eager enough to see if my elusive hard-on was back. Viagra had come to my rescue in the end, making sure I was raging hard for ten hours minimum, so I used that time well. Leah strutted forward and pressed her lips to mine, her tongue delving deep and tasting pleasantly like toothpaste. As soon as she pulled away Cindy moved in, kissing with a little more fervor. You see, Cindy’s tits were slightly smaller than Leah’s, her hips a little wider, a major source of contention for the D cup porn star. It made her feel inadequate, and she always felt like she had to step up her performance a notch or two to compete. Truth was, as long as she was happy to flash her goods, moan for an hour or two, and scream out when the director told her to, she had herself a job. I slapped Cindy on the ass as she walked away, feeling a little pleased with myself to see the satisfied sparkle in her eye.
“Bye, Decker,” they booth crooned as they let themselves out. As soon as the door clicked shut, I was left in an uncomfortable vacuum of silence. I reached for the remote to my way too
expensive and really damn loud sound system and pressed a button. “We Gotta Get Out Of This Place” by the Animals filled the room. I liked old school stuff. My musical appreciation had been groomed by my parents, and I wasn’t giving it up for anyone. Not even Snoop Dog, even if I had been at his last album release party. Feeling a little less lonely with my music, I found the energy to make it to the bathroom where I quickly soaked under the heated spray, washing away the scent of sex and women. When I was done, I dried off like all males do, quickly and inefficiently. Water still dripped down my naked torso as I brushed my teeth in the vanity mirror. My dark hair looked darker wet and hung a little longer over my eyes and around my ears. I would have cut it, but Belinda, my hairdresser, explained the couldn’t-give-a-fuck look was in and I should roll with it. What could I say? I truly didn’t give a fuck. My eyes were a weird mixture of brown honey which were currently laced with tired red veins. I only had a couple of hours’ sleep last night. The thought of my escapades with Leah and Cindy didn’t result in a satisfied grin. No shock there though, one pussied out male present and accounted for. I ran a hand over the growth on my face again and shrugged. Neither Cindy nor Leah had complained that I had left them with beard burn between their thighs. I checked the grooming around my dick and gave it a satisfied nod. I guess all those years making money off that piece of equipment had me more concerned with its appearance than my face. I was in good shape, tall and tone, and I carried a cock that most men would pay one of those penis enlargement sites a ton of cash for. The entire package made me a reasonable amount of money and, more importantly, had put my name in the right social circles. It wasn’t like I didn’t have options outside of porn. In the early days of my career, I had managed to invest wisely. When my dad was laid off from the construction company he had put in thirty years’ worth of loyal service to, he decided to step out on his own. I gave him every cent I earned towards it, and in the end, Steele Structures was born. My dad and I were now equal partners in a company that purchased old dilapidated buildings in Manhattan, renovated them to their former glory, and either leased them out or sold them for a tidy profit. While the economic crash a few years back had destroyed many, my dad and I swooped in and bought whatever property we could get our hands on, all across Manhattan. As the economy continued to slowly right itself, Steele Structures was now raking it in. I didn’t need to work in porn, but I liked it. I liked sex, I liked girls, and I liked the name and reputation I had worked hard to build for myself. I sure as hell didn’t like that I now had a major equipment malfunction to deal with though.
I dressed quickly, old jeans, worn shirt with a button up thrown over it, buttons undone cause I didn’t have time to do them up. I slid my feet into a pair of flip-flops before grabbing my keys and leaving the apartment. I was running late, as usual. I had promised my best friend, Bradley, I would pick up his cousin from the airport. He had caught me in a moment of weakness, and when I say weakness, I was tanked. I hadn’t even remembered the phone conversation with him; an email with Andi’s flight details was my only clue that the conversation had transpired. I guess I owed him; he had dragged my drunken ass home from enough bars and clubs over the years and covered for me when our sneaky, teenage whiskey shots had resulted in me hugging the porcelain throne for half the night. Just the thought of the whiskey induced vomit-a-thon made my stomach churn. I was renowned for more than just my sexual prowess; I had the weakest stomach and the most ridiculous gag reflex known to man. Bradley used to
tease me to no end over my sensitive stomach. I had met Bradley when I was four-years-old. Our parents had been neighbors and we hit it off right away. We went to school together, and even after Bradley and his family moved to Florida when we were fourteen, Bradley and I remained best friends. Our parent’s friendship, unfortunately, dwindled with time and distance, but I still spent many summer vacations in Florida with Bradley, which is where I met Andrea Jennings. Andrea, or Andi as she now liked to be called, was awkward. She was a few years younger than me, so as a blossoming, horny teenager, I hadn’t really offered her the same attention I gave the other girls my own age. She was cute, in that country, pale skinned redhead kind of way. She hid her braces under a constant frown and kept her gaze submissively downcast at all times. She also had the personality of a rock. The girl barely pulled her face out of a book long enough to eat and shit let alone hold a conversation. Yet even though I had dismissed her as a weird book geek, I found her intriguing. My male appreciation could see the milky soft skin, big eyes, and full lips that would grow into a beautiful woman. If only she would grow a personality to go with it.
According to Bradley’s email, Andi had purchased an old second hand bookstore with a studio apartment above it down in SoHo. She was going to fix it up and turn it into New York’s
next big thing. A bookstore…New York’s next big thing. Nope, that was not going to happen. I had checked out the building; it wasn’t one of mine, but I had to admit it was in a good area. Old and in need of work, but not too far from the hustle and bustle of the SoHo nightlife. Andi was taking a massive gamble though. Any business venture had risk and a country girl trying to make it in the city? It had disaster written all over it.
Traffic was a bitch and my mood was dark as I coasted along the bumper to bumper city streets, my arm casually resting on the window sill. A car pulled up alongside me, music blaring, “Walkin’
On Sunshine” by Katrina and the Waves. I glared at the pretty boy blonde and his hippy female counterpart who both wore a ‘free hugs’ t-shirt and flowers in their hair, even the guy. They were singing loudly and watching me with far too much enthusiasm, with big ridiculous smiles on their big ridiculous faces. I reached for my cold coffee and tossed its contents out the window, splashing down the side of their bubble Mazda. Their smiles didn’t disappear, and their effort to shine some sort of whimsical happiness into my heart only intensified. I pressed the button and my window slid up too slowly. I graced them with my middle finger before the traffic finally began to move. I was being an asshole. This wasn’t me. I was the laid back, easy going Decker; the guy who laughed when others threw temper tantrums; the guy who could bring a woman to her knees, literally. Under the pressure of my failing manhood, I had turned into a prick!
*
After trolling for a parking space for far too long, I was in the airport, leaning against a wall by the carousel where Andi would get her luggage, if Bradley’s flight details were correct. My eyes scoured the people around me from under my cap, worn in a futile attempt as a disguise. I was no Brad Pitt; I could leave my home and venture outside without being set upon by soul sucking paparazzi, but I was still occasionally recognized. I didn’t feel like being recognized today. I felt like…I had no idea what I felt like. I was acting like a moody bitch on the night before her period. I watched with a small amount of humor as a hot piece of ass struggled with a bright yellow suitcase the size of Everest. Seriously, what was it with chicks and luggage? Guys could travel to the other side of the world with one carry-on, but women had to pack their entire wardrobe plus worldly possessions. It constantly amused me to see men struggling with their woman’s truck sized suitcases, while their own backpack hung effortlessly from their back. No way in hell was I ever playing packhorse for a woman. Finally, the little doll got her suitcase from the carousel and turned around with a triumphant grin on her face. I gave her body a careful perusal. She was small yet her body still held soft feminine curves. She was wearing a little checkered dress with thin straps and frills around the bottom. It was a little too Elly May for my liking. The sexy, turquoise cowboy boots were pretty hot though, and an image of that little delicacy wearing nothing but those boots and maybe a scrap of lace filled my mind.
