Dream Sluts

Slim, girlish Brooke Skye is hot porn property. Hundreds of men want her to be their girlfriend.

Piscopo is as low key as Skye is high tempo. As he sets up for a striptease he plans to film this afternoon, he talks about the job of filming porn.

"I have members e-mail me, and they say, what would be cool is this, or put her in high heels. They want to see something they haven't seen before." He laughs. "Most of it's bullshit, though. They say, 'Oh I wanna see Brooke licking on a wet pussy.' We already have, like, 20 videos of that!"

Today, he wants to get footage of Skye cleaning her apartment, which she shares with longtime friend Samantha, who has appeared in numerous videos with Skye. Samantha will soon be the centerpiece of a similar site created by the same company. Today, though, she remains holed up in her bedroom after frying herself in a tanning bed.

Piscopo turns on the lights, and the apartment suddenly glows like an atrium at noon. "When [members] see me on the web cam, when I'm recording her, they say, 'Who the fuck is that guy?' Brooke tells them that it's her cameraman. They all say, 'He has the fuckin' greatest job in the world. I wanna work for him. I'll hold his camera. '"

He shakes his head. "Once you see everything and you do it every single day... Imagine you had sex four times a day, every single day, for the rest of your life. Do you think you'd get sick of it? I bet you would."

Skye isn't quite as porn-world-wearied as her cameraman and friend, it turns out — at least, it seems that way when a writer and photographer from New Times stand nearby during the shoot.

"Do a strip in front of the couch," Piscopo requests quietly. She's wearing a jean skirt and pink hoodie over a fancy white brassiere. They banter for a minute; Skye's laugh is a hearty guffaw that seems incongruous for a woman who's as strikingly skinny as a fasting ascetic. The bolt of skirt covers only the upper two-thirds of her buttocks.

"You ready?" he says. "I'm gonna start here." She's standing, and he's got the video camera at her waist. She begins to writhe, rubbing her hands across her bare belly, her thighs, across her chest.

"Hold on," she says, as giggles overtake her.

"What are you laughing about?" he asks.

"I'm so embarrassed. It's weird. I'm sorry. It's just weird having these two here."

"Now I'm feeling weird too," he mutters. They both crack up.

She addresses the interlopers. "We used to have a crapload of people when we filmed, but for so long, it's just been him, so it's all like... funny."

She moves off to the kitchen. "I feel like such a geek," she groans. "Let me make this coffee and I'll be good, I swear."

Undoubtedly, it's this kind of genial self-deprecation that keeps members paying that $30 a month or, for the long haul, $80 for a half year. Well, her humility and a serious onslaught of ads and spam promoting BrookeSkye.com.

To that end, Skye and Piscopo spend many hours a week filming webmaster requests, which are short promos in which Skye praises another website by name. It's done to curry favor with other webmasters, so that they in turn promote BrookeSkye.com.

"Sometimes they have me doing goofy shit, like running around in pantyhose and a bra and blowing bubbles," she says of the promos. "Don't ask — I don't know. My boss has these shirts that say, 'Don't ask me, I'm just the model.' That's my motto."

Once curious surfers actually arrive at the site, a mockup of a live, interactive web cam beckons, "Click here to start chatting with Brooke now!" Sure enough, Brooke Skye is seemingly online replying to the most lascivious requests. Try to join in yourself, though, and you'll be told that only members can send messages. Meanwhile, Brooke starts messaging the screen name you entered: "Where did you go?" "Are you still out there?"

When a member signs up, he's e-mailed a photo of Skye, which, through the miracle of digital manipulation, holds a greeting sign with the member's name on it. Inside lie roughly 100 videos of Skye in acts erotic and mundane: shopping for a car, masturbating, moving to a new apartment, muffdiving two girls, cleaning her apartment, nibbling nipples.

With some coffee and a little food in her stomach, Skye finishes filming the striptease in yeoman fashion, a performance that will soon join the archives of her pseudo life.


Sitting at a sidewalk table at Tarpon Bend Restaurant on a recent blustery afternoon, Skye looks like a typical spring breaker, dressed in shorts and a tank top, with hair whipping about in the breeze. Although this had been scheduled as a lunch-time interview, she'd been held up by the vagaries of filming and a woefully insufficient sense of direction that left her hell and gone from the restaurant. By the time she arrives, it's midafternoon. She's now wolfing down a seafood appetizer.

"I love food!" she gushes with a just-off-the-farm sincerity. At her age, a hectic pace and a gleeful excess of cigarettes and coffee lets her eat what she wants and remain Kate Moss-thin. She speaks expansively, as though there's nowhere else in the world she'd rather be right now.

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