Porn Star(91)

I wander downstairs, past the wet bar by my kitchen, and I stop to pour myself a scotch because that is what I do when I’m upset—I process my feelings through my liver. But I don’t actually drink it. I just cradle the glass in my hands and watch the sky darken above my pool. And then my phone rings.

I practically drop the scotch answering it, my blood spiking with excitement and dread at the same time when I see Devi’s gorgeous face on the screen. I answer, trying to keep my voice from shaking with trepidation and relief.

“Hey, babe,” I say, setting the scotch down. “Thanks for calling me back.”

“I’m sorry it took so long,” she says. Her voice is measured, unreadable. “I wasn’t feeling well this morning, so I had to leave. I went to my parents’, and then my phone died.”

It has the practiced pitch of a rehearsed excuse, and my stomach sinks. I’m pretty sure this means she’s upset about my scene with Bambi today, not that she’s actually sick.

“Cass, I want to see you.”

“Not now,” she says. “I’m still not feeling well.”

“Later tonight maybe? If you’re not feeling well, I can come take care of you.”

“I’m going to stay at my parents’ until tomorrow,” she says, and there’s a note of apology in her voice. “I think I really just need to sleep it off...whatever it is that I’ve caught.”

“Devi.” I swallow. “Please.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Logan. Remember we planned on shooting in the afternoon? I’ll be over at one.”

Come over now.

Or let me come to you.

Please, Cass, don’t do this.

I don’t say these things. I don’t say them because I know the right thing to do is to give her space. I don’t say them because a good guy would give her the benefit of the doubt and believe her when she says she’s not feeling well and needs to sleep.

Most of all, I don’t say them because my throat is too tight to speak. I clear it and manage to say, “Okay, babe. I love you. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Love you too,” she echoes, and in those three words, I hear pain and confusion fathoms deep. “Goodnight, Logan.”



* * *



If I were filming a movie of my own life, I’d be disgusted with it right now. First of all, I’m not exhibiting any believable character growth in response to my obstacles. And second of all, there’s no coherence or unity of theme right now. I mean, what am I even feeling? I’m feeling way too much contradictory shit to express in film. No, if I were a director, I would tell my character to pick one thread and stick with it. Am I trying not to cry or am I swooning on my feet whenever I think of Devi? Am I checking my phone constantly or am I trying to resist throwing my phone across the room? If I were a director, I would tell myself that feelings are passive, and to choose actions instead—and then to choose those actions deliberately.

One action at a time.

The idea is appealing to me as I get up the next day and shower. I’m not naive enough to believe I could actually pick one of those feelings and discard all the others, but the idea of cleaning up all these emotions is so deeply attractive. And as I remember Devi’s eyes as she watched me prepare for my scene with Bambi, as I remember convincing her that reality is not the antithesis to porn, I realize something so terrible and clarifying that I abruptly stop washing my hair and drop my hands, simply standing under the spray and staring at the wall as I absorb how wrong I’ve been.

I wanted everything to be together, gloriously messy and unified, because I felt like our palpable love and attraction would make Star-Crossed a better project. I thought that blending our personal romance and our onscreen sex would be the answer, not taking into account Devi’s youth or the fact that I would end up falling for her so much harder than I ever could have guessed. I wanted everything together, because I thought that together was better, more real—hyper-real—but all it did was mix everything up. It cheapened the real connection we had and gave the filming more emotional importance than it deserved.

Fuck. No wonder Devi and I both felt confused yesterday.

The worst part is that this is all my fault. I convinced Devi to go down this path. I made us blur all the lines. I’m responsible for all our pain right now.

If we want to continue this, if we want to survive with our hearts intact and with our careers thriving, then we have to carve out boundaries now. We have to separate porn from real life, we have to compartmentalize. And I have to take responsibility for what I’ve done to us.

I just hope it’s not too late to fix it.

So when Devi unlocks my door at one, right on the dot, I have an entire speech prepared, practically an entire class to teach on Why I’m an Idiot and How I’m Going to Fix It. But then I see her, and all the words melt away from my mind, because she’s so f*cking beautiful right now, wearing a short flared skirt and tank top, her long hair in a messy braid that’s slung over one shoulder.

The moment she steps in, I’m pinning her against the wall and crushing my mouth against hers, my hands roaming everywhere, aggressive and needy. She kisses me back with an eager hunger, her mouth searching. And then her legs are wrapping around my waist, and we are grinding together while we kiss, and then she pants, “Let’s go to your bedroom,” and she doesn’t have to ask me twice. I carry her, her legs still wrapped around my waist, and we barely make it to my bedroom before her hands are fumbling with my zipper and I’m yanking at her tank top. I set her on the bed, toss her on her belly and then climb on top, flipping up her skirt and yanking her thong aside so fast that I hear the fabric tear. I don’t care; another second’s work and I’m notched in her cunt, pushing roughly inside.