when your city broke my skin and bones (say don't go) | WOOSAN

1

It is, undoubtedly, the worst idea San has ever had. It's most definitely made worse by the fact it has not remained an idea. Most people entertain the idea of being a pornstar once or twice, but most people have the common sense not to act on it. Very clearly, San does not have such common sense.

He realises this now, pressing the buzzer on the intercom. He didn't expect the site of a porn set to look so ordinary. The building looms above him, identical to every other building on this road with their dirty white fronts and peeling paint. There are doorways set into the buildings in intervals, set back from the road by front steps with rickety handrails. He supposes most are masionettes, or flats, used by businesses. This isn't a residential part of Soho.

San's heart skips a beat when the intercom crackles to life, a tinny voice coming through. 'Who is it and what do you want?'

'Oh, um, it's San Choi, I have an interview? With Sandra Fields?' It still feels wrong, no matter how many times he does it, to say his first name before his surname. He refuses to anglicise the pronunciation of his name, though, no matter how many people butcher it or give him weird looks. If he can say all of these white people's names, they can fucking say his.

The intercom crackles again before falling silent, and San wonders if the woman heard him. Moments later, he hears footsteps, then the click of the lock, and the door opens to reveal a short omega woman with glasses perched on a pinched nose.

'Come in,' she says.

San steps through, wrinkling his nose as he's immediately hit with an overwhelming number of scents, both alpha and omega, some aroused and some not. They mingle together in the air, sending a shiver down San's spine.

San's chest is tight as he follows the woman up the stairs. He is most definitely stupid. God, why did he think he could apply for a porn website?

In his defense, he didn't immediately apply to the first porn advert he saw. In his defense, he wouldn't be here if any of the three hundred jobs he's applied for in the last month didn't fucking ghost him. Like, come on, he has a fucking degree, and he still can't even get an interview at a fucking café. Or as a cleaner. Or at Tesco. Or at Lidl. Or at one of the millions of clothes shops he's walked past on the way to the tube station.

And really, if he's naming names, Remi from work shouldn't have mentioned that his cousin's girlfriend is minted from being an ex-pornstar.

San is steps onto the landing, which is more of a hallway, to find it bustling with people. The scents are even stronger here than they were at the bottom of the stairs, thick in the air like a heavy, tangible thing. There are doors to the left and right, and one at the end of the hallway, people coming and going from all of them.

His hands are sweaty.

The woman doesn't look back to see if San's following; she walks straight into the room at the very end, and San weaves between bodies to keep her in sight.

The kitchen the woman leads him into is the length of the flat, easily twice the size of the kitchen in his own tiny studio flat. San sits at the table opposite the woman, a laptop and notebook and a mug of pens littering the surface.

'Sandra will be with you in ten minutes or so for the physical check, so I'll run through the paperwork quickly.'

Physical check? In an interview? He doesn't know why he's so shocked that an interview for a job in porn doesn't work like normal job interviews.

The woman runs through a check list of basic questions. What's his ethnicity? What's his subgender? Is he mated? Is he on suppressants? Does he have any health problems? San notices she doesn't ask about whether he has the right to work.