I’m Intimidated By Kink Actresses

This one gets weird…

Time To Read: 5 mins | December 17, 2016

It’s a running joke on the internet, the idea that a man’s self-esteem can overcome all. “You just have to be confident!,” every guy is told. “Confidence is attractive. That’s all a girl wants.”

To which every male inevitably responds by citing those shirtless ab selfies the gym rats post on Tinder, the ones you ladyfolk swipe right on ad nauseum.

But frankly, it’s true. Confidence is important. It’s not the only variable in the formula – you should be able to run a mile under twenty minutes, and probably not talk about being a Brony on the first date – but being self assured is certainly the single most critical trait when wooing a love interest.

Usually, I’m OK in this regard. I’ve not got the most swagger on the planet, but I can take most whatever’s thrown at me, process it, and quickly respond with a pithy nothing.


This was an exception.

…now, before we get into this massacre, let’s talk about drinking. I joke about it often, I know, but I’m only very rarely out of control, and when it does happen, it’s an embarrassing catastrophe. Being stupid and unable to function is the opposite of cool. So this is a serious note: please don’t read my stories as a glorification of getting shitfaced. Like listening to rap or playing violent video games, don’t go out into the world and start mimicking everything you hear or see in media. Or, put bluntly, don’t be a moron. Drink within your limits.


But as you’ve probably guessed by now, this was one of those nights where I went truly overboard. I’d gotten some bad news, and as such sped past casual cocktails, waved bye-bye to good sense, and raced headlong into bad decisions and double vision. Twas not my finest hour – but, in my defense, it was a Tuesday.

I’d found this little bar in Antigua, Guatemala. A total hole in the wall that had live music, skulls and jewelry hanging off the walls, and barely enough light to see your hand in front of your face. I was in town alone for 72 hours, and a candlelit once-upon-a-time speakeasy seemed like a fitting watering hole.

My first night camping at this bar went well enough, so I returned the next evening for round two. There was a three-person band on, playing some reggae-Spanish-something ruther. Again, my brain was more than a touch addled that evening, so I can’t quite describe what I was listening to. But I was functioning highly enough to order a drink and not fall over – a low bar, I admit.


And then I saw her.

Stunning brunette, gorgeous by any standards you wish to impose. The face was what drew you in, these full lips and blue eyes, neither of which had any business being that large. What’s more, I caught her speaking English — in a country where you’re used to understanding nothing, that becomes a turn on.

I stumbled over. She ran off.

My brain told me there was a correlation, that my approach had caused her to skiddadle. But fifteen minutes and another drink said otherwise, so I tried a second time. Now she was sitting at the bar in the back of the room. There was free space to her right. I approached, and she didn’t desperately make an escape. Hashtag winning.

I don’t remember what I said first. I’m sure it was crap. But after a sixty second back and forth that presumably went well enough, I asked what she did for a living.

Now, I’ve admitted this entire story must be viewed through a hazy lens, courtesy of Mexican liquor. But I assure you this short quote’s a completely accurate transcription:

“I make kink videos,” she said, using the monotone accountants affect when explaining your tax refund over the phone.

Remember what I said earlier about confidence? It takes a lot for me to freeze up, but this is not the answer you wager on hearing when you ask a backpacker her profession. And, knowing what was about to happen, her two friends sitting nearby were watching me expectantly. 6 eyeballs gauging your reaction to objectively surprising news is a tough hill to climb.

— writing this the next morning, the rest of the salient details are hazy. Suffice to say, she was once asked online to film herself peeing in a bottle and send it to someone, so she did, and made more money than whatever else she was doing at the time. This was several years ago, and she fulfills requests to this day. Her two friends do similar jobs, though one of them was more into POV role-play porn than fetish films. That friend, by the way, is the one who hated me from jump street.

“Most people don’t react so strongly to what we do,” she accused.

I’m still proud of my response: “Fuck off.”

“I’m not embarrassed to admit this is not what I expected,” I continued more peaceably. “Most people say they’re executive assistants or working on their pre-med degrees. You just told me people pay you to do pee stuff.”

That got a laugh, but due to shellshock, I failed to ask interesting questions, or for that matter the obvious one, “Can I see?” I thought I was doing OK with the girl I’d originally meant to chat up, but her one friend, the one with a talent for looking into camera while holding a penis, wanted nothing to do with me. So they left. I listened to more music, drank beer, and tried to put the shattered pieces of my brain back together.

The next afternoon, after popping 4 Advil to cope with the atomic bomb that’d detonated in my skull, it occurred to me that the girls may have made all this up. This could have been some sort of practiced elaborate ruse used by three attractive girls to scare off would-be suitors. If that’s the case, well played. But I don’t think it was.

Instead, it made me reevaluate my confidence. Think of James Bond: would he have stuttered when meeting a kink video producer? Of course not. He’d have rattled off a one-liner, and the next scene would show him climbing out the window of his posh hotel suite after an implied night of coitus.

I’ve a long ways to go, because confidence matters, and I can’t handle professional urinators yet. But in the meantime, why’s my rum bottle empty?


photos: masks for sale in antigua, guatemala. probably not haunted.

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Malcolm Freberg
Malcolm Freberg
American writer living permanently on the road. Believes rye whiskey is superior to bourbon, Belle is the best Disney princess, and that selfie sticks should be snapped in half on sight. Hosted a travel documentary for AOL & played Survivor a few times.

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1 Comment

  1. Sunny

    I didn’t even know what a kink producer was, thank you for that. You are a great writer. How do you not have a survivor blog?


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