Porn Star (26 page)

And yet.

In my bones, in my skin, in the particles of energy that make up my “soul,” I feel like this connection has nothing to do with his skills and everything to do with Him and Me and no one else. As though I were special. As though we were bound by a gravitational pull. As though I were the Earth and he, the moon, and with his orbit he commanded the tidal waves of emotions and arousal within me.

It’s not reasonable to feel this way, or even realistic. He’s a professional pornographic performer. And yet, I’m a girl who believes she might be something more.

No, not believes—
hopes
.    

He takes me while I’m lost in this yearning, drives into me with a bold, frenetic passion that’s determined to grind and thrust and fuck, wildly. Mindlessly.

Damn, Logan O’Toole can shatter a girl. I wrap my thighs higher around him, perfecting the way he fits inside me. “Yes. Right there. Right there.”

“Squeeze me, Devi. Make your cunt tight and grip my cock.”

I clamp around him, clenching as hard as I can then relaxing for just a second before repeating the motion. He groans, his thrusts growing even more frantic. “Jesus, just like that. Do it again. Fuuuck.”

He’s about to lose himself when he grabs onto the scarf at my wrists and tugs me toward him, bending me in half. He seizes my mouth with his as I cry out, the new position causing him to strike me in the most amazing spot. My vision goes blinding white with the pleasure, and I’m gasping when he breaks the kiss, clawing at consciousness, trying to find something to hold on to so I don’t get lost in oblivion. I focus on his face, on his lips, on his eyes, on the crease of his forehead, on the sharp contortion of his features.

I recognize this expression from his movies. It’s this crazed, hungry, primal expression that, whenever I’ve seen it, I’ve nearly gone mad wishing it were a look I could see in real life.

And now I
am
seeing it in real life, and while it’s thrilling and hot beyond belief, I’m keenly aware of how many other people have seen this look on his face. Aware that it’s not a look that’s special or private or reserved just for me.

That realization pricks at some place inside my chest, pinches and twists it, and when I come this time, my orgasm is accompanied by tears that I’m pretty sure aren’t just a component of release.

Oh, God.

I’m so in love with Logan. In deep, deep love.

We lock eyes, and even though I haven’t said it out loud, I think he can tell I’m thinking it because his face suddenly turns warm and intense, and then it’s not only me falling apart, but both of us. Crashing together like two stars exploding in a blaze of heat and fire and pure light.

The way he looks at me, with eyes that seem to see something heavenly in my appearance, I know—I
know—
he meant it when he said he loved me, and I know he’s just as surprised and awed by it as I am.

And I can’t help but wonder if he’s scared too. Can’t help but wonder if the violent way he shudders into me with his release, sputtering and rutting almost like he’s angry, is an indication that he senses the same undercurrent of
terrible
within that love that I do.

        “
I
have to work today
.” Logan traces a finger along my jaw. “I wish I didn’t, but I’ll have to get ready soon.”

And just like that, the morning is no longer perfect.

It’s funny how Logan makes me feel more visible than anyone ever has—like I’m present and
seen—
and yet he also has the ability to make the rest of the world completely disappear. Waking with him, fucking him, lingering in his arms, I’d practically forgotten that we both had jobs and lives and Things besides each other.

I’d forgotten that my boyfriend makes porn. With women that aren’t me.

“Editing or…?” I don’t know if I want to know what
type
of work he has to do today, but I can’t stop myself from asking.  

“I’m filming a scene with Bambi Roo.” He looks past me to the bedside clock to check the time. “She’ll be here in about half an hour.”

My stomach drops like a lead anchor. The intensity of my reaction surprises me, makes my mouth taste sour. Makes everything sour.  “Okay. I can leave.”

I start to roll out of bed, but Logan tugs me closer. “I was going to invite you to stay.”

My smile can’t be contained. “You were? You’re not sick of me yet?” His invitation doesn’t completely erase my apprehension, but it certainly helps.

“So entirely not sick of you.” He captures my mouth in a blistering kiss. “In fact, for the first time in my career, I wish I could call in sick.”

“But you’re a professional. You’d never do that.” I don’t know if I’m testing him or me—trying to feel out whether (a) he’d really ever call off a scene on my count, and/or (b) I’m bothered by the fact that he probably never will.

He tucks a hair behind my ear. “No. I wouldn’t call in sick. And that’s why I’m inviting you to stay.”

I knew he wouldn’t cancel. Asking me to stay is a decent compromise, though, one that earns him a decent grade on my test.  I, on the other hand, am pretty certain I’ve earned an
F
because I am for sure bothered by the idea of him having sex with another woman right now.

And what the fuck is that about?

In my head, I hear Raven’s voice repeating her accusation from the day before. “
He’s always fucking someone else
.” She’d called it advice, but she meant it to be hurtful. And it was.

And I hate that.

I hate that she knew it would get to me. I hate that she hit her target.  And, most of all, I hate that she’s right—that Logan will always be fucking someone else.

And I hate that it bothers me so much. This isn’t me. I don’t like who this is.

A voice that sounds an awful lot like my mother quoting Maya Angelou, says, “
What you're supposed to do when you don't like a thing is change it. If you can't change it, change the way you think about it.”

So as some sort of silent act of spite, I decide to actually let her words be helpful. Yes—Logan fucks other women. Because that’s Logan’s
job
. If I want a place in his world, I have to figure out how to deal with it. Starting today.

“Yes. I’ll stay. Thank you for asking.” Who knows? It might even end up being hot for both of us the way my scene with Kendi was the day before.

Or I’ll discover that I’m not as open about sex as I think I am. Considering the direction our relationship has taken, it seems like something I really ought to figure out soon anyway.

I
clean
up and dress first. Logan’s still in the shower when the doorbell rings twenty minutes later. I expect to come face-to-face with Bambi, but it’s a guy’s voice that says, “Yo, dude, you moved the key,” before I’ve even finished opening the door.

His brows rise in surprise when he realizes I’m not Logan. Then they rise higher as he skims the length of my body with his eyes. “Oh. You’re not a dude.”

Maybe I should be offended by his ogling, but there’s something instantly charming about him, so, instead, I grin. “Not last time I checked.”

“You must be Devi. I’m Tanner. Logan’s wingman. Are you…?” He looks around, searching for Logan or Bambi, I don’t know which.

I’m pretty sure what he’s getting at though. “I’m sticking around to watch his scene today. Bambi’s not here yet, and he’s in the shower. I’d invite you to make yourself at home, but I have a feeling you’re here more often than I am.”

He chuckles. “It
is
like a second home. We work together a lot. I assume you’ve been to the dungeon?”

I shake my head. “I mean, I’ve seen it on videos. Just not in person.”

“Come on, then.”

The “dungeon” isn’t the most elaborate that I’ve seen, but it’s bigger in real life than it appears on camera. The tight angled shots make it hard to grasp the size of the room, and that it encompasses pretty much the entire basement. A quick glance tells me that Logan’s inventory rivals any sex store. He has all the basics—vibrators, plugs, crops, whips, handcuffs—and a bunch of toys that are for the more expert sex enthusiasts. It’s an impressive set-up.

And it’s hot.

I can imagine myself down here, naked, my nipples clamped, my neck collared, my wrists and ankles strapped to the suspension rings on the wall. I’d be blindfolded and writhing and Logan would implement all sorts of punishments. Naughty punishments. Ones that torture with both pain and pleasure.

I close my eyes and run my fingers through the tails of his flogger.

“What do you think?”

Logan’s arrival startles the crap out of me, but I try to play it cool. “I think you’ve been holding out on me.” And then, because I’d been thinking dirty thoughts and because I’m not really ever that capable of playing it cool, I blush.

He studies me with a smile that says he knows exactly what I was thinking, which of course makes me blush further. “Can’t show all my cards at once,” he says. “You’ll get bored too soon and leave me before I’m ready.”

I don’t miss the raised eyebrows from Tanner at Logan’s words, but I’m too thrown from them myself to respond. There are too many layers to his statement. Too many things he could be trying to tell me, and even though it’s a flirty line that makes my stomach flutter, I have a feeling there’s legit fear hidden beneath it. Is Logan as worried that his job will get in the way of our relationship as I am? He’d been the one to say we needed to find things that made us special. I’d assumed that was for my benefit, but is it possible he’s struggling too?

“You’ve been holding out on me too, man.” Tanner adjusts one of the set lights so it will hit a spot on the concrete floor (
he’d make me kneel there; he’d make me beg
). “You told me Devi was supreme, but you didn’t let on
how
supreme.”

Logan selects a whip from his collection and then crosses to the case of vibrators. “Because I knew as soon as you found out, you’d immediately go watch all her movies, and I might accidentally imagine you jacking off to her, and I’m not comfortable with that.” He takes out a magic wand—a powerful massager that makes me shiver just thinking about it.

“Dude, I’m not comfortable with you accidentally imagining me jacking off either. Please don’t ever say that shit again.”

Logan grabs his crotch and gestures teasingly toward Tanner. “Don’t pretend you’re such a homophobe. You know you want it.”

I laugh as Tanner rolls his eyes. “Do you want two cameras on this, do you think?” Tanner asks.

Logan looks out over the room, and I imagine he’s choreographing the scene in his head, which both impresses me and makes me a little anxious for no reason I can explain. “Yeah, two, I think. Leave one on the tripod over there.” He points, indicating where he wants it. “Do your thing with the other.”

I grin as I watch him because he’s sexy like this—he’s
always
sexy, but especially like this, all assertive and visionary and passionate about his work. Then my smile fades because I suddenly remember Logan’s not preparing this scene for me.

God, why does that thought have to make me so miserable?

I hang back when Bambi arrives, not wanting to disrupt the chemistry they need to perform. I’m suddenly grateful that Logan watched my scene with Kendi first—that way I can take all my cues of how to behave from him. He’d stayed out of the way, so I should too.

But even staying out of the way I’m a mess inside. Every second that passes brings me more and more dread. More and more anguish. It’s not fair that I feel this way, not to him. He was totally chill with my shoot with Kendi and, if he’d been upset about my het shoot, he didn’t let on. Well, besides the anger he expressed toward Bruce’s off-set behavior, but that wasn’t the same. He’s obviously better at his job than I am. He’s older—maybe that helps? He’s dated someone in the biz before.

It’s me. I know this. All me.

So once again I remind myself that I need to get my act together.  I start by trying to rationalize through all the ways that our sexual relationship is different than the sex Logan has for his job.

1.    We had sex without a camera.

2.    We had sex in his bedroom.

3. We had sex without any money being exchanged—I mean, he’d given me money for
Star-Crossed,
but that didn’t pay for what happened between us last night. Or this morning. Or, really, any of it.

4.     We had sex when I needed it. When I needed him.

It’s not like sex is what makes a relationship, anyway. It takes more than that to make two people compatible. Logan and I have more than just sex between us. We enjoy each other’s company. We love each other. We’re
in love
with each other. It’s the combination of all those things that makes what we have special. We shouldn’t have to be monogamous with our bodies to feel like we’re a couple.

My head knows these things. Understands them well enough to write a dissertation on the subject of why monogamy is an archaic expectation.

But it doesn’t matter what I know. Because my heart feels differently. My heart doesn’t get it. Especially when the action begins, and Logan’s standing over Bambi, making
her
kneel. Making
her
beg.

My heart is watching the man I’m in love with do very intimate things to a woman who isn’t me, and my heart is breaking.

Maybe if I caught his eye like he’d caught mine during my scene with Kendi. Maybe he could make me part of it, and I’d be okay. But I slip out before he has the chance to notice me at all because I can’t stand the possibility that he’d catch my gaze, and it wouldn’t change anything.

Or, even worse, that he’d get too lost in his performance with Bambi to think to look for my eyes at all.

M
y phone’s dead so
, I plug it in as soon as I start my car. I’m still in Logan’s driveway when it buzzes with a string of notifications. Down deep, I hope one is from him, hope he noticed I’m gone, and that he stopped the scene in order to come after me, even if only by text.

But I’m afraid to check, in case it’s not him. I don’t want to find out how much that will hurt. So I start my car, and without looking back, I drive away from his house.

At the first stoplight, I can’t help myself—I check my phone’s screen. I sort through the messages, quickly determining that none of them are from Logan. Nothing else interests me at the moment, and I start to put my cell in my cup holder when I catch Raven’s name in a post that I’m tagged in on Twitter.

@theRealRaven How will this project fit into @number1Toole’s schedule with @DeviDare?

Logan’s tagged as well, and even before I’ve finished scrolling to the beginning of the conversation, I’m feeling dread.

The light changes before I find it, and I have to wait until I’m at another red light before I can look again. I find the original post easily—it’s a tweet from Raven herself. An announcement.

New project with @number1Toole CUMMING soon. #staytuned #bignews

“What the fuck?” I mutter out loud. I flip through the responses, looking for more info. I’m sure he hasn’t seen this or responded to it yet, and I’m dying to know what his answer is as well as what the hell project he has lined up that involves Raven in the first place.

I think back over what Logan said about Raven the night before. He’d seemed fairly irritated by even the mention of her, and definitely pissed that she’d confronted me. It wasn’t the type of reaction that led me to believe he’d work with her again. But, did he ever actually say how he felt about her?

He didn’t.

And if fucking is really just a job for him, then it stands to reason he might sometimes work with people he doesn’t particularly care for. People he once cared for quite a lot.

The thing is—I don’t like it.

He’d told me we needed to figure out boundaries; this is one of mine. I don’t want him fucking his ex.

At the next opportunity, I flip my car around, intending to go lay this request out for Logan, but before I get very far I remember he’s still doing his scene with Bambi Roo. Which is sort of a blessing at the moment, because after I think about it further, I realize that showing up all sorts of pissed about his job only a day after we declare our love would make me look like a petty girlfriend. Especially after skipping out early on the shoot he was doing this morning. I need to make boundaries, but I don’t want it to seem like I can’t handle his line of work.

And then it hits me—I
can’t
handle his line of work.

Oh, God.

This isn’t good.

This isn’t good at all.

I’m probably just emotional after what happened with Bruce Madden, and with all the intense interactions that have occurred over the last twelve hours between Logan and I. Of course I’m a bit unbalanced.

Except I’m more than a bit unbalanced. I’m upside down and inside out with jealousy. I don’t want Logan fucking Raven. I don’t want Logan fucking Bambi Roo. I don’t want him fucking anyone but me. Period. On camera and off. And, honestly, I’d rather the majority of it be off-camera because I want what he and I have to be just between the two of us. Just ours.

I want him all to myself.

This emotion is so new to me. The unfamiliarity of it is spinning me everywhere, spiraling me this way and that. I’m free-floating with nothing to grab onto, like an astronaut in space whose tether didn’t hold. I don’t recognize this situation. I don’t recognize myself in this relationship.

“What the fuck.” It’s the second time I’ve said this phrase aloud in the last several minutes, but this time it’s not a question—it’s realization and exclamation.
What the actual fuck?
I’m Devi Dare. I’m a three-year veteran in this world. I’m a person who relies on logic and reason, and there is no logical reason that I should feel threatened by Logan doing the job he’s done everyday since I’ve known him. So what the actual fuck is this goddamned emotion doing inside of me?

At the next intersection, I turn my car around again, this time heading nowhere, just not toward Logan’s. As I drive, thoughts of him and the conflict we’re facing press deeper on my soul. The cyclone of emotional turmoil inside me whirrs tighter and faster, picking up stray ideas and folding them into the narrative in my head the way loose debris gets caught up in a tornado. What if I can’t handle this? What if I’m not capable of being in love with a porn star?

Every few minutes my phone pings with more notifications that people are responding to Raven’s tweet. Excited, happy responses. That rubbish finds its way into the cyclone. Then my agent’s ringtone plays, and though I reject her call, the reasons she’s calling get pulled into the storm as well. What if I can’t work in this field anymore? What if I’m blackballed? What if I don’t want to shoot porn anymore anyway?

How cowardly would it be to just run away and hide until the storm passes?

Pretty cowardly, I know. And I’m usually a brave girl, like Logan says. But not today.

I turn off my phone and head to my parents’. It’s not running away, and knowing them, I’m sure the visit will end in frustration, but they’ll let me bitch and vent. And maybe talking about it will bring me some sort of clarity.

Somewhat dramatically, I fling open the kitchen door and, upon confirmation that they are both present, announce, “Everything is terrible.”

My father glances up from his hunched position over a backgammon board at the kitchen table. He’s obviously playing by himself since my mother is across the kitchen cleaning out her paintbrushes at the sink. “‘
When you realize how perfect everything is you will tilt your head back and laugh at the sky’.”

Goddamn Buddha.

My mother turns from the sink and dries her hands on her muumuu. “Oh, Devi! Taste the baghali polo on the stove, will you? And tell your father that it needs more saffron.”

I ignore her because, well, she ignored me, and direct my next remark directly to my father. “I’m tilting my head, Dad.” I look at the ceiling for dramatic affect. “Tilting my head and there is no laughter because there is no perfection. There is nothing even a little bit like perfection.” That’s not exactly true—the way I feel for Logan is steeped in a lot of almost-perfect. It’s how close to perfect it is that makes the flaws in our relationship so apparent and unbearable.

“Someone woke up on the wrong side of chi. “ My mother squints at me. “My word, Devi, you’re a cloud of crazy energy! Come sit down, and I’ll see if I can straighten you all out.”

I fold my arms over my chest and don’t budge. “Not right now, thank you.”

My father moves a piece on his game and then sits back into his chair. “At least tell us what’s so imperfect and terrible about this world.” He means well, but I can already tell he’s preparing a philosophical argument.

I want no part of that debate, but I do want to talk. It’s why I came over here—to unload my burdens, to maybe find some clarity. “All right. I’ll tell you.” I cross the kitchen and lean against the arch to the den so I can look at them both while I talk.

Then I tell them. Everything. I tell them about Logan and the show, about falling in love, about my idea to do more het porn in order to pay my student loans. I tell them about the day I got overwhelmed looking at the school catalog and about another day when I got a wild hair up my ass and applied to a bunch of universities across the country before I remembered that not having a major was a real problem. I tell them about LaRue Hagen and Bruce Madden, and the likely hit that will have on my career. I tell them about Logan being there for me when I needed him and about being jealous, about not liking the way I feel when Logan’s touching other women. About not knowing who I am or what I want.

“Ew. Jealousy.
‘Keep yourselves far from envy; because it eats up and takes away good actions, like a fire eats up and burns wood.’”
With that, my father turns back to his game.

Frustrated, I dig my nails into my palm. “At least the quote came from Muhammad this time,” I mutter.

Bâbâ tilts his head and studies me. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just its nice to know there are inspirational people who aren’t Buddha.” I’m being unfair. My parents find inspiration in pretty much everything. They’ve never identified with one religion over another. They love parts of so many faiths and philosophies—Muslim, Buddhist, Christian, agnostic. They’re socialists and communists and democrats, and every hippie idea in between. Basically they live by a hodgepodge of good ideas. And I freaking love that about them. I love that they raised me to be like that too.

But today I can’t seem to see through the same rose-colored glasses they look through, like someone smudged a handful of mud all over the lenses—Raven maybe, or Bruce Madden. Because every inspirational notion they have seems trite and impossible to embrace.

“Peace comes from within. Do not seek it without.”
This time I’m the one to quote Buddha, and I do it in my head then follow it up with a few deep breaths.

It doesn’t help.

I run a hand through my hair. “I’m sorry. I thought it would help to talk about everything, but I think I just need some time alone.”

My mother offers a warm smile. “It will blow over, Boombalee. Meanwhile, alone time is good. Relax and take your mind off of all this bad energy. Do some tai chi and a yoni steam. Just you wait—the universe will give you the answers.”

I know her heart is in the right place, but my heart is all over. I’ve reached my limit. I snap. “Goddammit, Mâmân. No. I don’t want to do a yoni steam or tai chi, or have a Reiki session or a Tarot reading. I don’t want advice from Buddha or Susan B. Anthony or William Faulkner or the universe. I want advice from
you
!”

I pinch the bridge of my nose and close my eyes and count to ten quietly in Farsi in an attempt to calm myself down.
Yek, do, se, char, panj…

My outburst is followed by silence, and when I force myself to glance over at my parents, the expressions on both their faces reflect shock and alarm. Possibly a little hurt, too. That thought breaks me. The last thing I want is to make them feel bad. I love them fiercely, and I’ve just attacked everything that they are, simply because my immature ass can’t handle my shit.

I lean against the wall and slide down to the floor, wishing I could disappear into the den’s lime green shag carpet. Once down there, I decide I might as well go full meltdown. I shift and stretch out fully on the floor. With my arm draped over my eyes, I bite my cheek to keep from crying full out, but I can’t prevent tears from spilling down my cheeks. In just a few minutes, I’m lost to my own misery, so it takes me longer than usual to notice the shift in energy around me.

Lifting my arm slightly, I peek out and find both my mother and my father standing over me. The pain I’d thought I’d seen in their eyes a moment before is still there, but now that they’re closer, I can see that they aren’t hurt
because
of me—they’re hurt
for
me.

Whatever resolve I had disappears, and a sob slips out from between my lips.

Mâmân squats down next to me, and like an injured child who desperately needs the embrace of her mother, I sit up and fall into her arms.

“I’ve been
The Fool
,” I say, like I’m confessing. It’s a reference to the first card of the tarot deck. Or the last card, depending on how you look at it, since every journey ends back where it began.
The Fool
is exactly like he sounds—foolish. He’s the madman, the jester, the beggar. The
majnun
. “I’ve been stumbling around, carefree, taking risks without worrying about the consequences. And I don’t know if I’m at the beginning or the end of this particular journey. I just feel lost, without a guide, and I don’t know how long my faith is going to hold out.”

Sometimes, with Logan, I’d convinced myself that I was being an adult, that we had a grown-up relationship. And with the naiveté of a kid, I’d let myself fall blindly in love.

And it had been
wonderful.

But now it isn’t anymore. Now I am tangled up and twisted inside. Now I am lost in the dark, afraid to take a step for fear of walking off a mountainside.

“I don’t know what to do.” My words are muffled in the fabric of my mother’s hemp tunic, but somehow I know she gets the gist. “Tell me what to do.”

Mâmân rocks me gently, her hand stroking my hair. “Oh, sweetie. I know it hurts, and I wish I
could
tell you what—”

I know where this speech goes.
I wish I could tell you what to do but I can’t because blah blah blah, personal life journey, growth.
All that crap.

But before she can finish, my father, who is still looming above us, cuts her off. “You want our advice, Devi? Let me give you some advice.” He’s firm and there’s enough impatience in his tone to cause my mother to still her sway.

I hold my breath and clutch onto her dress. He has my full attention even though I’m too scared to look at him directly.

“Go back to school. You’re a learner. You have a thinker’s mind. Go to school.”

“But—” I start to deliver all my usual protests—
what will I study? What if I don’t choose the right degree?

He seems to read my mind. “Just pick a major, Devi. If it’s the wrong one, you’ll change to another. And if that one’s wrong, you’ll change again. What’s the worst that can happen? Higher student loans? Are you really going to let fear keep you from happiness?”

He says it as though money shouldn’t be a factor in my decision, which is completely unrealistic. Except I can’t really argue with him because, at the same time, do I really want to let my dreams be decided by the current balance of my bank account?

Bâbâ bends down closer to me, and his tone is softer when he speaks again. “You can’t know if your path is the right one until you completely become The Fool. You have to take that blind step to see if you’re walking on solid ground or if you’re falling off a ledge.
That’s what you’re supposed to do.
You’re supposed to be unsure. You’re supposed to dare, not stand still. You risk. You take chances. You figure out how to live by
living
.”