Kyle Mason
Sharing My Asian Wife - Scene 4
Kyle Mason, Pisces, popped out in Minneapolis back in 1987. The city’s art scene gave him plenty to gawk at, and the Boundary Waters threw in canoe trips and ski weekends like free samples at a grocery store. He ditched the family Lutheran outlook somewhere along the way and stuck with science for the heavy lifting. Back then he was painfully shy, so when he lost his virginity at nineteen, second semester of college, it was with a girl from the dorm next door—awkward and sweet in equal measure. Before porn he taught ballroom dancing and competed, plus he hung a shingle on human body mechanics; both gigs are waiting in the wings once he’s done with lights and lube. He broke in by carpet-bombing every big agency with applications. Riley at Hussie called the next morning, offered him sunshine and Florida, and that was that. Off-set he hoists iron, chases good meals, and still sneaks in a spin across a dance floor. Pure Taboo felt miles from his other gigs. They wanted scenes that looked and felt real, cinematic even—lights, script, tension, the whole ride. He figures the studio hands people a pressure valve for urges that polite society would rather shove under the rug. Clamp them down too tight, he says, and they tend to pop off in ugly ways.
Kyle Mason, Pisces, popped out in Minneapolis back in 1987. The city’s art scene gave him plenty to gawk at, and the Boundary Waters threw in canoe trips and ski weekends like free samples at a grocery store. He ditched the family Lutheran outlook somewhere along the way and stuck with science for the heavy lifting. Back then he was painfully shy, so when he lost his virginity at nineteen, second semester of college, it was with a girl from the dorm next door—awkward and sweet in equal measure. Before porn he taught ballroom dancing and competed, plus he hung a shingle on human body mechanics; both gigs are waiting in the wings once he’s done with lights and lube. He broke in by carpet-bombing every big agency with applications. Riley at Hussie called the next morning, offered him sunshine and Florida, and that was that. Off-set he hoists iron, chases good meals, and still sneaks in a spin across a dance floor. Pure Taboo felt miles from his other gigs. They wanted scenes that looked and felt real, cinematic even—lights, script, tension, the whole ride. He figures the studio hands people a pressure valve for urges that polite society would rather shove under the rug. Clamp them down too tight, he says, and they tend to pop off in ugly ways.