Porn Star(15)

I let out a sated sigh.

Followed by a frustrated groan as I remember seeing Logan at Vida’s party the night before. How adorable he’d been with his wet clothing clinging to his tight body. How searing his gaze had been on my skin. How he’d flirted and bantered.

How I’d gone home alone.

Damn, Logan O’Toole and his super hot hotness.

I’d truly convinced myself that I’d built the memory of him up in my head, that he couldn’t possibly be as alluring and charming and sexy as I’d remembered.

I was wrong. He was all of that and more. So Much More.

We clicked too. Last night was the first time we really had a conversation, and I know I’m not imagining the spark between us. A spark that went beyond physical attraction. He listened when I talked. He looked at my eyes and my lips instead of my breasts and ass. Well, instead of just my breasts and ass. There was even a moment—a couple of moments, actually—where I thought he might kiss me. I tilted my chin up, I parted my mouth, I ran my tongue along my lips—had he really not gotten the hint?

Considering what Logan does for a living, it’s impossible to think he missed my cues.

Which means he’s obviously not interested.

I let out another sigh, lamenting, and sit up to shut the laptop. But, if he wasn’t interested, I think, then why did he ask for my number?

That has to mean he wants to hear from me. Doesn’t it?

With a burst of optimism, I reach for my phone and start to compose a text. It takes only a handful of seconds before I realize that: (a) I have no idea what to say; and, (b) I’d be too chicken to say it even if I did. I mean, he’s Logan O’Toole. He’s a star. He can get whomever he wants, whenever he wants. He doesn’t need random ex-coworkers falling all over him, and he certainly doesn’t need me texting him in a post-orgasm haze.

Anyway, he probably only asked for my number because he was being polite. Or because I’m a good resource to have when trying to round out a cast with ethnically diverse women, something I know Logan is conscious about in his work. And I needn’t be so bummed about it because: (a) I believe in ethnic diversity in porn; and, (b) the whole reason I went to the party in the first place was to get a job.

Actually, I should be proud of how the whole evening went. I stepped out of my comfort zone and talked to a couple of producers, one of whom promised to reach out with a project soon.

So when the phone, still clutched in my hand, buzzes with an incoming text, I swipe the screen, confident that the message is from a prospective boss, ignoring the flutter of hope that it’s from Logan.

I’m sure you know that in Persia, Cassiopeia rides a two-humped camel. And I didn’t tell you this just so I could say “hump” in my first message to you.

Before I have a chance to respond, a second text comes through.

Okay, maybe that’s exactly why I told you that.

I’m still giggling when the third comes through.

Also, aren’t you proud that I spelled Cassiopeia correctly even though I obviously used spell check?

God, he’s adorable.

And Oh My God he’s texting me!

I hop out of bed, suddenly filled with a nervous energy that’s driving me to pace the room. Logan O’Toole, the guy who I dream about, the guy who wouldn’t lean down and kiss me even though he’d gone down on me on-camera three years before is texting me.

I don’t know what to think. Or feel.

Is he interested after all? His tone seems flirty, but maybe I’m misreading. He’s always a bit flirty. It’s part of his job.

But he remembered Cassiopeia.

I made enough of an impression for him to still be thinking about it the next day. Enough for him to research it and then send a message about it. That has to mean something. What, I don’t know.

What I do know is that now I have to think of a response, and I have zero clue what it should be.

What to say, what to say?

I pace and compose several responses in my head before attempting to type out a reply, and even with the mental prep, I’m anxious when I respond: You said “hump.” I add a blushing emoticon because it feels appropriate.

I said it twice. You know why, right?

I’m too excited to even bother with a guess. No. Why?

Because that’s how many times I thought about humping while I typed out that message.

I choke on a giggle. His response is juvenile and ridiculous, but what does it mean? Does it mean he was thinking about humping in general or thinking about humping me?

Then I come to my senses. Of course he wasn’t thinking about humping me. If he had any interest, he would have made a move last night. And because I’m so certain he didn’t really intend any innuendo, I type back: It’s because there are two humps on the constellation that Cassiopeia rides on. You thought about it once for each hump.

There’s a delay before he responds, and I bite my lip while I wait, my legs still jelly from the orgasm I had fantasizing about him just a few minutes before. I grow hot again thinking about it and when my phone buzzes with his latest message, my heart is hammering in my chest before I even read the first word.

Yes. That’s right. Though, if there was a camel last night, I don’t remember it. I only saw Cassiopeia.

For half a second I consider letting my fantasies bloom, letting the things I wish twist into things that are, and I imagine that he means I’m as beautiful as the mythological Cassiopeia, and that he only had eyes for me.