Porn Star

by Laurelin Paige

  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.

  18

  My 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 r
emark 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.

  Baba 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 Farci 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 muumuu, 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. Y
ou risk. You take chances. You figure out how to live by living.”

  I swallow past the lump in my throat. “You mean: ‘You cannot travel the path until you have become the path itself’?” I ask, giving Buddha as a thank you for the perfect, perfect words my father’s delivered.

  “Yeah. Something like that.” He taps my nose lightly with his finger before standing again. “And if it’s not school that interests you, that’s fine too. Just…is what you’re doing now what you want to be doing forever?”

  I shake my head.

  He raises a brow. “Is it leading you closer to whatever that is?”

  This time I don’t say or gesture anything because I don’t know the answer.

  “Well, then,” he says, as though everything’s been resolved. Then he slinks back to his backgammon board, and I know it’s not because he’s not interested in what I’m going through. He just recognizes that every fool has to make the journey alone. I’m grateful that he’s pointed out the path he thinks is right for me. I still might not choose it, but it feels like he’s given me a place to start.

  My mother wipes a tear from my cheek with the pad of her thumb. “Look. Everything’s worked itself out.”

  I let out a short laugh. “I wouldn’t quite say that.”

  “Why not? Your father told you to go back to school. So you’ll go back to school.”

  “Mom, do you want me to go back to school?” I know she does. It’s what she hints at in every Tarot reading she does for me, but it felt good hearing my father tell me what he thought and I want to hear advice from her, too.

  “I do.” She’s confident with her answer, but then she adds, “If that’s what you want.”