The Truth about Porn Star Boyfriends

by Sunniva Dee

  “That she is, the only good part.” He lets out a small laugh. “Listen, Savannah.”

  “Yeah?” I say, breathless.

  “I’m flying back Saturday. Can I see you then?”

  My heart has been doing a lot of weird things since it met Ciro. Now it constricts. “What were you thinking?”

  “We could do the boardwalk.”

  I gasp with excitement. “Okay.”

  “Pick you up at six.”

  Swapping work shifts with Frieda is crazy worth it as the Bentley pulls into our driveway. I watch Ciro ease out of the car and straighten, shoulders wide over his slim build. Lin is next to me, nudging my side. I’m ticklish and try to move away, but he follows me, saying, “Eh? Eh?” like he’s Italian instead of Chinese.

  In my haste to get to the door first, I knock over one of the four flamingo-and-hibiscus arrangements I’ve ostracized to the entryway, and Lin opens the door while I scoop up the mess. Water spills toward the front door, a prolonging of our welcome committee.

  I peer through a lock of hair that’s escaped my studiously loose bun and stare straight at Ciro. He looks ill, like he’s had too much sun. But then I realize it’s his eyes; they simmer, which makes them seem even greener than usual. The smattering of golden and silver flecks is there too, making his irises glitter while he takes me in.

  “Hai, I’m Lin Eun Young, Savannah’s!”

  Ciro tears his gaze away from me to look at my roommate. Who’s bobbing his head hard, a grin on his face. Ciro accepts Lin’s hand and shakes it before his attention flicks between the two of us. “You’re Savannah’s?”

  “You forgot a word, right, Lin? You’re my roommate.”

  Lin’s expression doesn’t change, and his head keeps bobbing, so I start to nod too, and suddenly we’re a chaos of bobbing heads, rotten flower water and flamingo lilies—in my hands, on the floor, and in a cannon replica pointing straight at Ciro.

  At the outer corners of Ciro’s eyes, there are fine wrinkles. They deepen as he breaks into a smile, taking in the flurry of red and green surrounding us.

  “Nice to meet you, Lin. Do you guys need help?” He lowers next to me, picking up a few hibiscus. “Nice.”

  “I figured you’d like them. I got them for you.” I chew on my smile as I scoop wet leaves from the tiles and deposit them on a placemat. God knows what it’s doing in the hallway.

  “Great taste, great taste.” Of course he sees the cannon.

  “You like cannon?” That’s Lin, pulling his signature move, slim fingers steepling in front of his nose with excitement.

  “Pow.” And the picture is complete. Now Sam’s sauntering out from the living room right when I needed less, not more dimwits in here gawking.

  “Never mind him.” I wish cheeks never flamed. “I’m ready if you want to get out of here? Sam, you’re on flower duty!” I bark the last part out to shut everyone up. Then I brush dead plant remnants off my hands and try to hoist Ciro up from his hunched position. He stands slowly, looking between Sam and me.

  Okay, fine. I get it. “Samuel Ilardi, Ciro Silveira, nice to meet each other,” I mutter, rosy-cheeked.

  “She’s so easily embarrassed,” Sam tells Ciro in lieu of pleasantries. Ciro uh-hums in agreement. “You see it on her eyes. See how big they are right now?”

  “Sam, you’re a dick. Go home.”

  Ciro’s gaze caresses me from the side, which does nothing to alleviate my awkwardness. “Yeah, I noticed her eyes when I first saw her, and I was done for.”

  “No shit.” Sam nods sagely.

  In the Bentley, I expect the same old music to play, but he’s changed it up with some chill electronica that rolls like the Pacific and triggers my pulse. While we drive, the sun sinks and disappears. We get on the highway heading west toward the beach.

  Ciro captures my hand and pulls it to his mouth, and a hot burst of air hits my knuckles. “I missed you up there.”

  “You missed me in Canada?”

  “I did.”

  “Aside from Donnella, were you working with friends, or...?”

  “I was. All good old friends. I only had a couple of scenes with Donnella, so I can’t complain.”

  “Worth the money?”

  For a second, his head leans against the backrest, and he twists toward me enough to make me imagine him against my pillow. “Can we not talk about my job?”

  “Oh, of course. I don’t want to pry.” I can’t say I haven’t been thinking about his films. He’s an actor. Why don’t I know his artist name? Why hasn’t he mentioned a few of his movies? They’re B-films, for sure, maybe even C-films, but they clearly pay the rent.

  “I was just curious, and work is the first thing people talk about, you know? It’s like the weather. It’s always safe to talk about the weather.”

  I can’t decipher the smile he sends me. Is it sad?

  “I mean... Don’t you like your job?”

  “No, I do, but— You wouldn’t understand. Give it a rest for now.”

  “Try me.” I shrug like it’s no big deal. “For instance, I wouldn’t be surprised if even movie stars were sick of their jobs sometimes.” The canyon swings toward PCH, this curve so abrupt it has me holding onto my armrest.

  “‘On top of the world’ probably isn’t a static thing,” I continue. “You gotta dip down to feel it when you go up, right?”

  “So wise for her years.” We stop at the last light before PCH. We’re about to turn left, drive along the dark ocean and into the city of Santa Monica. “But my job is who I am. My job saved me. I wasn’t doing so well in Florida, and if it weren’t for my performances, first live, then onscreen, I would have been in jail or dead by now.”

  “Really?” I search his features for signs of humor. There are none.

  His shoulders hike up and relax slowly. “I slid out. My mother was in her forties when she had me, the only child, and my father was twenty years older. So by the time I became a teenager, I’d spent entire years of my life playing bridge and rummy, and hanging out with my so-called uncles and aunts at the country club. I was chockfull of energy and was going stir-crazy. Then puberty started.”

  “Yeah, puberty’s the worst for guys, I’ve heard. Then it gets better, right?”

  “Not for everyone.” The right side of his lip quirks upward like he’s joking, but I think he simply finds it funny.

  “You’re still pubescent?”

  “Sex-drive-wise, yes. And with enough practice, a guy can get lethal.”

  I angle the A/C toward me to cool my face. “So... what happened in Florida?”

  “I was sick of everything and started ordering stuff off the internet and taking it. Pills, powders that would get me high. I liked the kind that catapulted me into euphoria, but I didn’t mind the type that sent me to sleep either.”

  “Whoa. And your parents didn’t notice?”

  He chuckles darkly. “If you get shit shipped to you in your father’s name, your mother isn’t going to open it. Then all you have to do is grab it before he comes home from work.”

  “Goodness.”

  “Eventually, I got into legal trouble. Was in jail for a night after being picked up, high as a kite, in a park downtown with a few substances on me.”

  I study his face in disbelief. This beautiful man shows no sign of ever having been self-destructive.

  “My father’s yacht club buddy, an old lawyer, got me out of jail time, but I was sentenced to community service and a forty-grand fine.”

  “How old were you when all this happened?”

  “I was eighteen.”

  “Wow, I’m so sorry. That’s so harsh.”

  We find street parking by the boardwalk, which is incredible and a sign that we’re supposed to be here right now. He leans over and pushes my door open. I’m on the traffic-side, so
he says, “Stay put until I’m there.”

  I feel light as he draws me to my feet. I’m happy about wearing my small yellow pumps with this outfit. It’s nice to tiptoe next to him, leaning a little on his arm, as we cross the street together.

  “Anyway,” he murmurs, stroking stray hairs from my face on the boardwalk side of the street. “I was discovered for my body and what they named smoldering stare. I got to audition, and I was a natural. I’ve worked ever since.”

  “Wow. No acting classes, even?”

  His eyebrows arch in a moment’s surprise before he takes my hand and kisses the top of it. “No. As I said: natural.”

  “Can’t believe you say that with a straight face.”

  He responds with a light eye roll. “You’ll see.”

  “When?” I clap my hands playfully. “Are you going to act for me?”

  “I’ll show you later. First, the boardwalk.”

  We’ve had hot dogs for dinner. Then corn dogs. Then we topped them off with churros and real Coke, no diet. I’m buzzing in the breeze, from the loud circus music, from his hand on my hip and how it spreads warmth through the cotton of my shirt. I crack small unintentional jokes that cause him to smile.

  Ciro and I are into seahorses tonight. I claim they don’t exist along the Californian coast. He claims they do, and then there’s a shooting game where Ciro wins me a cuddly stuffed one.

  Eyes bright, my perfect date hands me the seahorse. The girl behind the counter twists her hands, beaming. I get it. I envy me too. I’m usually her, peeking out at people with dates to snicker and bicker with. He’s a man to have chemistry with, one who touches and makes a girl scorch. I didn’t even search for this. It was him butting in and being magnetic and insistent.

  It’s no problem.

  I’m just living the moment, enjoying myself.

  Carpe Diem.

  The L.A. night is cool. I have jitters climbing up the skin of my butt and rocking inside my stomach. I know this sensation of yellow awareness, of hope for the future. Right now he’s in this future, a thought I squelch, because it’s the last thing you can have when you’re bound by Status Quo.

  “You want to try the Skyrise?” He’s eager. I open my eyes from my impromptu seahorse hug and peer up at him.

  “The Skyrise? That doesn’t sound very exciting.”

  “It’s supposed to be pretty good.” Full mouth quirking upward on one side, he points as we turn a corner. “There it is.”

  I’m not a thrill-ride girl, but there’s no way the contraption in front of us can scare me. It’s a platform. It’s on the ground and holds ten rows, about seven seats each in an auditorium setting.

  “I get to sit next to you,” he murmurs, caressing my temple with his nose. “What do you say?”

  I let out a breathless laugh. Santa Monica is beautiful. So is the ocean. Why wouldn’t I want to be raised high by that mechanical monster with Ciro next to me so I can watch it with him?

  The seats are soft and comfortable. There are armrests, but Ciro instantly lowers the one between us and pulls me into the crook of his arm. It’s the first time I’ve rested fully against him, and instead of relaxing, adrenaline starts to pump through my veins. Future. Opportunities. What will the next minutes—hours—the night hold? I shush myself.

  “What’re we doing later?” I blurt. It’s already ten. He should be driving me home afterward, and I should be going to bed.

  “Whatever you want, girlfriend.”

  “M-m-no, we haven’t discussed the girlfriend part.”

  “Amnesia.” His whisper sends a chill down my neck. “It’s a serious condition.”

  “Shut up. I mean, you keep mentioning it, but—”

  He swings me toward him, stills my chin between thumb and index finger so my only option is to meet his gaze. It’s tender and violent with determination. But then there’s more—there’s desire, and I’ve never seen so much of it at once before.

  When he jerks me tight, I moan. He finds my mouth. Lips gliding along mine, he tastes me, and the sensation is delicious, exquisite, insane when his tongue delves in and invades me.

  I weaken as he devours me, throws gasoline on my brand new fire. I’ll never breathe again. Oh god, this is all I need, him inside of me, however he wants.

  My arms go limp at my sides, but his are around me. When he finally lets up, I gasp, openmouthed and fish-like. If I’m to die, this is it. Lord Almighty, I’m up for that.

  “Are you alright?” he whispers while they pump the Skyrise toward dark clouds and light-polluted stars. I expect him to smirk, aware that he already skyrocketed me more than this contraption can, but his gaze reveals concern.

  “Yeah... Phew.”

  “Get ready. You’ll have something else to think about in a moment.” The pressure of firm fingers against my skin makes my heart stutter. “So let’s get this sorted once and for all. Be my girlfriend.” His eyes are thick-lashed and insistent.

  And that’s when the world erupts.

  Chaos! I’m in his arms, everything around me shaking, trying to throw me off. Thank god we’re both wearing seatbelts.

  I scream my ass off.

  “Sshhh.”

  I don’t know why he says that when I can’t even see his face anymore. He’s blurring. I’m being shaken. It’s not the world quaking around me. I’m shaking. Him? He’s shaking too, oh yeah, and his grin is so wide!

  “What is this?” I’m roaring like a small animal, not a lioness or anything cool. Ciro’s laughter rolls out, mixing with the rest of the screams around us. He squeezes me—I see nothing around me. What about the view? Weren’t we supposed to see the ocean from here? We’d see—

  “Seahorses!” I scream incoherently, and Ciro laughs harder.

  “Holy shi-i-it!” I scream next.

  We’re lowered to the ground. I’m trying my best to keep my focus away from the extremely amused, drop-dead gorgeous man next to me. Sure, I have a penchant for blushing when I’m off my game, but my face right now is hitting a new level. Tomato-popped-into-a-frying-pan-with-four-million-gallons-of-hot-lard level.

  Back on the ground, I am Jell-O. I don’t fall because Ciro has a firm grasp on my elbow. I keep tipping sideways and into his body.

  “I can’t. Even,” I say.

  “That was hardcore, huh? Sorry, baby.”

  “You knew, didn’t you?”

  “Oh no. No, no.”

  I angle up to read his expression and find barely contained mirth. “Uh-huh,” I say. “Liar.”

  He shifts my body around so we’re face to face at the edge of the pier. Below us, the depths glint dark and dangerous, but we’re eight feet above, and Ciro is pulling me into his arms.

  “Mmmm.” His exhale enters my bones from above. He’s warm, right-smelling. I form to him from my shins and up until the top of my head nestles beneath his chin.

  I didn’t know. I had no idea. I’m fighting some emotional lump in my throat while he mmms, because this feeling of being aligned with someone you fit with can make a girl swell.

  “No, I hadn’t been on the Skyride before, and I didn’t know how intense it was.” Ciro sends a stare to our joined hands on the way back to the car.

  I’m mock-mad, and he’s enjoying it. I feel like we’re playing some man-woman game, all Venus and Mars. Ciro’s Mars is charming as hell. “I wouldn’t have taken you onboard if I knew how wild it got.”

  “I don’t believe you,” I say. “You never lost that giant grin.”

  With every move, he hits new pockets of nerves and hormones in me. It’s like he’s taken SAV 101 Score and already aced it.

  We don’t talk more about girlfriends and boyfriends. I’m so hooked I would have accepted if he brought it up again. Yeah. Good thing he doesn’t.

  Ciro’s traveling, and I’m getting antsy. My roomma
tes are getting antsy. There’s scowling going down too now, because his flowers arrive several times a day. I’ve started hitting up the 99-cent store for plastic buckets.

  The bouquets are always the same: big, red, and phallic. It doesn’t matter what I text to Ciro. Unless we talk on the phone, his replies are red hearts, no more, no less.

  Sam guffaws and reminds me of our bunch-o’-dicks conversation.

  “You know how much I love you, right?” Frieda’s coffee-browns plead with me. “Date him already. It’s not like you’re signing a five-year contract by saying you’re his GF. You can break up with him tomorrow if you want. Just get us a ceasefire on the flowers.”

  Lin suggests calling the florist and telling them to keep the flowers instead of delivering them. He ends up doing it for me, which doesn’t go well. He tells them my name too, and now there’s no way they’ll ever turn down a flower delivery to me.

  Brooke, the fourth girl of our roommate clique, is never home, but of course she’s been at the house for the last five days. Every room is now a mess of succulent red petals and erect yellow flower penises. Needless to say, she’s not enthused. “It’s a lot, Savannah. Can’t you make your guy stop?”

  Ciro’s been gone for two weeks. I’ve done my thing: Mom, dogs, toner sales, Mintrer’s. I’ve had plenty to take care of, stuff to keep me busy. But the thing is, I miss him.

  Brooke has moved into her sister’s apartment “until the flower situation is sorted out.” Whenever I’m not home for my deliveries, Charlotte moves them out to the patio. When I return, I automatically head out and unwrap them. I accommodate them in their plastic buckets, the most recent batch from the 99-cent store being fuchsia pink. They don’t match anything and create veritable eyesores out there, but that’s the least of my problems. Thankfully, some of the older arrangements, like the cannon batch, are ready for the trash.

  He calls me every night, and in the mornings, we text.

  Where are you today? I type. He tends to switch location on me. The title of this film-in-the-making is Caribbean Nights, and he’s on yachts and different islands. Some have it rough, right?