Porn Star

by Lola Cherry

  I’m stunned, and instantly horny.

  The blonde is on her knees by a palm tree growing a few feet away from our fence. It’s decorated in Christmas lights that cast a red-green glow over the scene before me. I watch, open-mouthed, as she braces her hands against his thighs, and I can almost hear her moaning around his cock. He fucks her pouty lips with purpose, leaning forward to whisper something to her. I watch his lips move, as she groans loudly, as he moves his hands down to cup her tits. Not once does his rhythm falter.

  I touch my own breasts, my nipples peaking under my tank. For a moment, I close my eyes and pretend it is his hands pulling at me, causing my breasts to tingle with pleasure. When I open them again, I look back down and notice he has pulled back a little, and he is no longer leaning forward and whispering to her.

  He’s looking at me.

  I can’t tear my eyes away, and I wish I had the guts to pull my tank off altogether. Instead, I push my other hand down into my shorts, feeling the slickness of my pussy and the hardness of my clit as I begin to touch myself.

  He starts to fuck her mouth harder, emitting sexy grunts as he moves his ass forward and backward, his muscles flexing deliciously as he does. My own movements become firmer, in time with his motions, and it’s like the blonde has disappeared. We’re the only two here, both staring at each other as we react to one another with pure, undiluted pleasure.

  I can feel the ecstasy coiling inside, and my mouth falls open as I start to pant. It’s like he knows I’m close, and his stare becomes more intent, his thrusts mimicking my own frantic movements.

  Opening his lips, he mouths “I want to fuck you.” I feel my legs start to tremble as I reach my climax, my pussy contracting around my fingers as I exhale a strangled moan. I have to put my free hand out to steady myself on the wall, and a small smirk covers his lips as he, too, begins to come. I watch though half-shut eyes as his face contorts with pleasure, his high cheekbones more pronounced as his mouth forms an ‘o’.

  He looks glorious.

  I’m starting to feel embarrassed, and I check the rest of the partygoers to see if anybody else has noticed me standing at the window, touching myself up and staring at a real-life porn scene. Luckily, everyone seems too intent on chasing their own pleasure—whether it be via sex, beer or the end of a roach—to notice a twenty-one-year-old staring out from her upstairs window, her legs buckling under the force of her voyeuristic orgasm.

  Carter withdraws from the faceless blonde’s lips, and pulls off the condom; his lips curled into a half smile. He glances up at me and winks, and I hurriedly pull the curtains closed, my face hot with shame. I all but run back to bed and hide under the covers, wishing I’d had the sense to stay there in the first place.

  I wake up the next morning to find mortification weighing down on me like an iron blanket. As the Californian sun streams in through the sheer curtains, I toss and turn in bed, trying to forget about last night. But I can’t forget about it. Every moment is burned into my memory, turning me on and driving me crazy. Because it was hot—he was hot—but I still can’t believe I did it.

  My mind takes the walk of shame, though my body still lies in bed. I’m twenty-one. I’m nearly a college graduate. I’m an independent, confident woman. I can’t believe I got off in plain sight of my neighbor. Even worse, I liked it.

  Oh God.

  My cheeks burn, and all I want to do is jump in my car and drive straight back to Stanford. I know who I am there. I fit in, I work. I’m Lila Scialfi, the girl who works hard at school and has the occasional date with an eligible student. I like that girl. But she seems to be slipping away from me, until I’m stripped raw and I don’t know who I am anymore.

  When I finally stumble down the stairs, Mom and Bebe are in the kitchen drinking juice. I rub my face and head for the coffee machine, glad that Mom’s not had a chance to switch it on. This way I might even get a decent drink. “Did you hear the party last night?” Mom screws up her nose. “I can’t believe he’s done it again. After everything we said to him.”

  I squeeze my eyes closed. “Uh, yeah, I did hear something.”

  “Dirty bastard. I bet his yard is littered with condoms,” Bebe says, repulsed.

  I blush harder. “You think they were having sex?”

  “Well … duh!” Bebe is turning more valley-girl every day. “I mean, it’s just disgusting. There must be more germs over there than at the Center for Disease Control. It’s like a hepatitis b outbreak waiting to happen.”

  I really need that coffee. Because Bebe is right, it is disgusting. Yet, there’s still something about it that turns me on. Maybe it’s the forbidden nature of it, the knowledge it’s completely and totally dirty. Whatever it is has me riled up and turned on and every damn metaphor you can think of.

  “What time are we going to the food drive?” I run a hand through my tangled hair.

  “We’ll head over at lunchtime,” Mom replies. “That way we’ll be finished by four and we can get ready for the party.”

  The Silvermans at 776 always hold a Christmas Eve party. It consists of eggnog and canapés and excruciating conversation. Last year I had to relieve the boredom by picking off my nail polish. It’s the perfect way to round off the perfect day. An afternoon of carrying cans and listening to rich women pat themselves on the back, followed by a party held by people who don’t even celebrate Christmas, but want the chance to show off their wealth.

  When we head over there at eight—with Mom carrying a plate of her cranberry snicker doodles, and Don already half tanked on whisky—there’s no sign of Carter Grant next door. His house is dark and his pimped-up truck is nowhere to be seen. I can only guess he’s having his own fun elsewhere. There’s absolutely no way he’s been invited to the Silvermans’.

  We walk through their door—which is appropriately decked with mistletoe—and Don heads straight for the den where the makeshift bar is always set up. Mom walks into the kitchen with her plate of cookies, immediately launching into conversation with the trophy wives already gathered there. I hang with Bebe for a while, but eventually her inane conversation about which purse is more fashionable almost sends me into a hypnotic trance. When I look at my watch, I’m shocked to see it’s only 8:30 p.m.

  I hang in the living room for a while. Somebody has put on a CD, and Christmas songs are playing in a loop. I get to the third rotation of Mariah Carey, followed by Christmas Shoes, and decide cutting off my own neck with a white plastic knife would be preferable to staying here. I’m just not in the Christmassy spirit, and a party full of booze and insincerity isn’t doing anything for my scrooge-like tendencies.

  I find Mom still standing in the kitchen. She’s talking with Mrs. Silverman about the tennis contest. They both think the winner of the women’s competition is sleeping with the coach. “I’m gonna head home.” I flash them both a smile. “I’m beat. If I don’t get some sleep I might miss Christmas Day altogether.”

  Mom drains her eggnog. “I was just telling Marcia how hard you work. It isn’t good for you.” She turns and looks at Mrs. Silverman. “It isn’t good for her.”

  Mrs. Silverman nods. “That’s what she said. It isn’t good for you.”

  I think we’ve established that it isn’t good for me. It takes everything I’ve got not to roll my eyes. “I’m just tired. The party last night kept me awake.”

  “You went to a party? How lovely.”

  “Not a lovely party,” Mom interjects. “It was next door.”

  “She went to a porn party?”

  I let my eyes roll this time. It’s like watching Bert and Ernie. “No, the noise kept me awake last night.”

  “What kind of noise does a porn party make?” Mrs. Silverman’s eyes turn wide.

  “Sex,” Mom replies. “Sex and Mariah Carey and …” She lowers her voice. “I even heard Frank Sinatra.”

  “I thought he was dead?” Mrs. Silverman looks perplexed. I decide that is my cue to leave. This is what passes for intelligent con
versation in Elm Circle. I’m not sure which party is worse—this one or the one I kind of gate-crashed last night. It’s like going from the sublime to the ridiculous—two parties in one road and they couldn’t be more different.

  I say goodnight to the Silvermans, then find Don and Bebe and tell them I’m leaving. Don is already three sheets to the wind, and Bebe has managed to track down practically the only eligible bachelor at the party, although at fifty, I suspect Frank might be slightly out of her age range. He does own a bungalow in Brentwood and a convertible Mercedes, though, which I suspect adds to his attractiveness. At least in Bebe’s eyes.

  My way back to the house is lit by the Christmas lights flashing from everybody’s rooflines. I head toward our own monstrosity and find the sight of an overly-fat Santa and his reindeer actually puts a smile on my face. Especially when I think about the electricity bill that will be landing on Don’s mat in January.

  “Hey, Princess.”

  I immediately stop walking. If I knew what the hell hackles are, I would swear they are rising on the back of my neck. I slowly turn around and see Carter Grant leaning against his pimped up truck, the hint of a smirk playing on his lips. I curse Santa and his nine reindeers for lighting up the whole street and making me so visible. If it wasn’t for them, I’d have made it into the house without being seen.

  “Oh. Um. Hey.”

  “You been at that party?” He inclines his head toward the Silvermans’. “I guess my invite got lost in the mail.”

  “That’ll be it. Not the fact they don’t want their party to turn into some sort of primordial porn soup.”

  He laughs. “Sounds like my kind of party.”

  “I know.”

  “Your kind, too, if last night was anything to go by.” He walks across his driveway until he’s only a few feet away from me. I thank God for the hedge Don planted a few summers ago. As if a hedge will stop somebody like Carter Grant. “I think you enjoy my kind of party very much. I could tell by the look on your face.”

  “I wasn’t the one having my dick sucked.”

  “You jealous? If it makes you feel better, I pretended it was you.”

  “You’re disgusting. Why won’t you leave me alone?”

  He grins. “I wasn’t the one peeking in on somebody else’s private party, Princess. I wasn’t the one getting off while I was watching from my bedroom. And by the way, I came harder than I ever have before. So… thanks for that.”

  I feel hot. Burning. I want to wipe that smirk off his face with a fiberglass cloth. Then I want him to throw me down on the driveway and show me exactly who’s boss. I hate the way he turns me on.

  “Well, I hope you have a strong wrist and good memories. Because it won’t be happening again.”

  “That’s a shame.” His voice is smooth. “Because I’d really like to show you how dirty I can be, Princess.”

  “You’re horrible; do you know that?”

  He smirks again. “So I’ve been told.”

  I roll my eyes. “Well, Merry Christmas, Mr. Grant. I hope Santa brings you everything you deserve. And a twelve pack of Trojans.” With that, I flounce up the steps. Just as I’m about to slam the door I hear him shout.

  “A twelve pack wouldn’t last long enough. And I need Magnums, in case you see him.”

  I’m still fuming when I stomp upstairs. Fuming and kind of smiling because he has that effect on me. In an awful way, he’s the best thing that’s happened all day. And the only thing I’m thinking about as I strip off and step under the shower, and let the water wash away the angst of the day.

  When I step out, I grab a toweling robe and wrap my hair in a towel. I take a juice from our oversized refrigerator and start to play with my iPhone. Within a couple of minutes I find myself googling him. Because I’m really that sad. The first things that come up are news items. And of course, TMZ is the link I click.

  There’s a short video, shaky and dark, showing him working at the local shelter, handing out food to Los Angelinos who are homeless for Christmas. Alongside him are some minor, z-list celebrities. I watch this clip again and again, trying to work out the expression on his face as he talks to the homeless, and trying to comprehend how the man who has sex for a living ends up working at a shelter on Christmas Eve. As hard as I try, I just can’t understand him.

  That makes me want to know him even more.

  Chapter 3

  With only a week left until I’m due back at school, Mom and Don leave town for a legal conference in Mexico, which I think, is code for a work-funded holiday. Bebe is visiting some old school friends in San Francisco, leaving me alone in the house for a week.

  It’s time I desperately need to finish the outline of my thesis. No matter how little I feel like concentrating on the psychology of online addiction, I have to have my research proposal ready before spring term begins. My supervisor has already emailed me three times since I’ve been home, and though I appreciate her dedication, her suggestions only serve to make me feel stupid and nervous. I’m beginning to wonder if I’m really up to a career of academic research.

  For the first two days alone, I studiously avoid Carter, not wanting to give him the opportunity of goading me, knowing I have nothing to defend myself with against his pointed sarcasm. The humiliation of my display hasn’t diminished one little bit. So, I wait for him to leave the house—to go God knows where—until I venture out to my own car and drive to the City Library to try and track down some text books, as we aren’t allowed to use only online resources.

  While I’m in town, I meet up with some friends from high school, and we go to Rivera for a light lunch. Maisie is my closest friend—we were both reluctant cheerleaders in senior year, preferring to see it as an ironic statement rather than the ridiculous pep it actually was—and she shares my dirty sense of humor. Lauren is less out-there, but is kind and loyal to a fault, and I can always rely on her to have my back. Zach, on the other hand, is simply a drama-queen.

  I start to tell them about Carter Grant, leaving out the dirty details of my late night voyeurism, and Maisie literally squeals, flinging her arms around in glee as I try to explain Mom and Don’s reactions.

  “Jesus Christ, I can’t believe you live next door to him. He is so fucking hot,” Maisie gushes, her eyes dancing with excitement. “The way his eyes look when he has sex with a girl, and the way he whispers in their ears. You know he’s saying something completely dirty.” Maisie sighs, her face flushed with satisfaction. “I think I get off on his expression as much as the way he fucks.”

  “It’s his eyes,” Zach agrees, a dreamy expression washing over his features. “I don’t even like straight porn, but I could watch that guy any night of the week.”

  I sit at the table with my mouth open, realizing my friends are all dirty smut-watching fiends, and I didn’t even know it. All I need now is for Lauren to admit she does the five finger knuckle shuffle to the porn star next door and I’ll have a full house.

  Luckily, she remains silent.

  As soon as our main course is served, Maisie asks if she can sleep over at my place, and I flush again, imagining what she would say if she stared out of my bedroom window. Or even worse, knowing Maisie, she’d wrangle herself an invitation to a party and end up hooking up with Carter while I watch on like a loser. Just the thought is enough to make me angry.

  There’s not a rats chance in hell I’m letting Maisie sleep over.

  “I really need the house to myself; I’ve got so much work to do,” I explain, trying not to look shifty as I fiddle with the loose threads of the white tablecloth. “Maybe in the summer?”

  “I’m going to hold you to that, Lila.” Maisie scowls in frustration. I remind her she already has a boyfriend. She just raises her eyebrows.

  “I wanna come, too,” Zach interjects, spraying breadcrumbs across the pristine table as he laughs out loud. It takes me a few moments to understand his double entendre. Rolling my eyes, I remember why I like Stanford so much more than LA, and
thank God there’s only a week to go until I can drive back there.

  There are no parties or late night cigarettes tonight, so I climb in to bed with a sense of disappointed relief, having locked all the doors and turned the alarm on the way Don showed me. I lay there, the cool cotton sheet covering my body, and I can’t help but feel restless. I wriggle around, trying to find a comfortable position to sleep in. Slumber is elusive, and I watch the green glow of the numbers on my alarm clock mark off the passing hours, until it is quarter past one.

  I’m still awake when the intruder alert is triggered. The piercing siren causes my heart to stutter, making me jump out of bed onto unsteady feet, already shaking at the thought of a criminal having broken into the house. I’m torn between running down the stairs and out of the door—and potentially into the arms of a murdering rapist—or fleeing into Mom’s room and grabbing the baseball bat Don keeps under their bed.

  I’m frozen, an internal debate raging in my mind. It’s only when the phone rings I can even bring my feet to move. There is an extension in my room, and I lift it gingerly and press the ‘answer’ button, whispering a shaky “hello,” into the mouthpiece.

  “This is Alterel Security. Please give me your password.”

  I stumble out the agreed word then listen as the man tells me to stay in the house and wait for the security detail around the corner. His voice is soothing, and I try to tell myself it’s a false alarm, that everything’s going to be okay. In the meantime, the siren continues to wail, right up until the operator is given the news the security guards have arrived. On hearing the news, my mouth opens and I gulp down air, the influx of oxygen to my brain making me feel light-headed.

  By the time the guard reaches my bedroom, I’m awake enough to grab my purple silk robe from its hook on my door and tie the sash around my waist. “Are you all right, ma’am?” He is in his mid-fifties and from his closely cropped grey hair and rigid posture, I suspect he’s ex-military.

  “I’m fine.” My voice is surprisingly even, though my breathing remains ragged.