

Justine Joli sits smoking hot at the center of it all. She calls herself a sci-fi geek and means it. Video games and anime keep her up past two in the morning; cosplay is the foreplay. The name came from de Sade’s little monster, and she wears it like a silk slip. She tweets at her fans, drops half-finished nudes on her blog between shoots, and spends her free nights in the kitchen, naked beneath an apron, testing new sauces. Naked bungee jumps at dawn and late burlesque shifts pay her bills when the cameras aren’t rolling. Hustler and Penthouse slapped her face on their covers before she ever kissed a girl on film. Two hundred-plus scenes later, awards gather dust beside her PlayStation. Fifteen hard years of ballet, jazz, and tap carved the spine, the hips, the long red ribbon of hair that snakes down her back. She smiles once, wide and wicked, then opens her mouth to you. The trivia flies; the thigh presses warm. Take it or leave it—this dancer knows the endings before you finish asking the question.

Justine Joli sits smoking hot at the center of it all. She calls herself a sci-fi geek and means it. Video games and anime keep her up past two in the morning; cosplay is the foreplay. The name came from de Sade’s little monster, and she wears it like a silk slip. She tweets at her fans, drops half-finished nudes on her blog between shoots, and spends her free nights in the kitchen, naked beneath an apron, testing new sauces. Naked bungee jumps at dawn and late burlesque shifts pay her bills when the cameras aren’t rolling. Hustler and Penthouse slapped her face on their covers before she ever kissed a girl on film. Two hundred-plus scenes later, awards gather dust beside her PlayStation. Fifteen hard years of ballet, jazz, and tap carved the spine, the hips, the long red ribbon of hair that snakes down her back. She smiles once, wide and wicked, then opens her mouth to you. The trivia flies; the thigh presses warm. Take it or leave it—this dancer knows the endings before you finish asking the question.