Mentally, I direct the scene otherwise. I layer the sound of Prior’s paws scrabbling on the wood floors as he trots around the house looking for his squeaky toy. I layer in the angry goth punk music Raven played whenever she was here, and I layer in Raven herself, wearing something black and clingy, her phone wedged between her head and her shoulder as she stirred a pot of kale or something equally disgusting on the stove.
For the first time in three months, I consider—really consider—that maybe I wasn’t as in love with Raven as I was with the idea of having a relationship in the first place. That it wasn’t her I keened for in those bleak days in the movie theater or on my kitchen floor, it was that life. That life with noise and affection and connection.
The realization hits me like a freight train, freeing and terrifying all at once. I loved Raven, I know I did, but so much of that love was because she was filling a void for me, a void I hadn’t known was there until three months after it yawned open and empty again. She gave me a fantasy, the fantasy, and I slowly begin to understand that it is the fantasy that underpins all the ones I film for my scenes.
The fantasy of being in love.
Jesus.
I scrub my face with my hands, feeling liberated and also feeling pathetic. Who in this selfish, indulgent, spray-tanned city would ever guess that Logan O’Toole has a chewy caramel center? That under his I’ll-fuck-anything-that-moves veneer, there is a guy who just wants to love someone?
It’s ridiculous. And bad for business. I’m the guy who thinks with his dick, not his heart, and maybe my brand is to be a little bit of both, but I can’t give in to this inner boy band song. Maybe guys like me don’t get to have love. Not the kind of deep, real, raw love that I want. We get casual fucks and friendships coupled with the occasional stoned blowjob, and if we’re really lucky, maybe we meet a girl whose life will travel on parallel tracks to ours for a while. But those tracks always diverge, and then we’re left alone. Again.
This love shit isn’t just bad for business, Logan, it’s bad for you, a voice tells me. And I agree.
I let the image of my life with Raven fade away, until there’s only my ground floor again, every corner and every floorboard and every nook of the soaring ceiling screaming out the emptiness of my house. My hands grip the ledge tighter and then loosen as I let go of the memories of a life with love, let go of the fantasy.
But it all still tumbles around in my mind, tossed loosely around like clothes in a dryer, tangling with the texts from Devi that I keep re-reading, tangling with my strange disappointment over my scene with Ginger. And all of it tangling with Vida’s business proposal, until a new thought emerges, unformed and flopping as all new ideas are. But the moment my mind seizes hold of it, I can’t let it go.
I stand there for a moment more, blinking, and then I jog back to my office to find the card Vida gave me at her party. I dial the number on it, relieved to hear the Dutch-accented voice saying Hallo? after only three rings.
“Marieke,” I say. “It’s Logan. I have an idea for me and Lelie, and I’d like to tell you about it.”
Seven
I’m standing in line at the post office when my phone starts playing “Pussy Monster” by Lil Wayne, and I realize that I hadn’t fully considered this possible situation when I programmed all my contacts the night before to have distinct ringtones. At the time, assigning that song for Logan’s number seemed like a secret sexy joke. But now that my cell is singing, “I’m the Pussy Monster, and you better feed me pussy, pussy, pussy, pussy, pussy” in a crowded public building, I think I quite possibly made a bad decision.
With cheeks hot from humiliation and nervousness (Logan is calling me!), I abandon my place in line and head outside to dig through my purse and find my cell. I’m breathless when I finally hit talk. “Hello?”
“Devi?”
“Hi! Logan. I…” can’t believe it’s really you and ohmygod I can’t believe you’re calling me even though you text me pretty much every day.
I won’t tell him that. “Hello,” I say again instead. “Hi.” I’m an idiot.
Logan’s so smooth that he almost makes me feel at ease, even as he laughs. “I think we have a greeting established. Should we move on?”
“Yeah.” I cover my face with my hand. “Yes. Sorry. I was…distracted…when you called.”
“Distracted? That sounds intriguing. Tell me more about that.”
He has no idea that I have a massive secret crush on him, but sometimes, when his voice is layered like this with thick innuendo and comprehension, I wonder if he possibly could know.
Which is a ridiculous thing to wonder. He probably treats every woman as though she’s madly in love with him, and every woman likely is madly in love with him. So of course he knows I’m harboring affection as well. Because, who isn’t?
But hell if I’m admitting the ringtone I’ve assigned him.
“I just.” I sigh into the mouthpiece, regrouping. “I was in line at the post office, and I hadn’t realized my phone wasn’t on silent. So your call surprised me.”
“Ah. I see.” He’s quiet, and I decide he’s as disappointed with my lame answer as I am. He probably regrets calling me.
“But thank goodness it wasn’t on silent. Because then I would have missed you all together.” Yep, I’m totally transparent.
And I totally want to die.
But it’s not likely that I’m going to spontaneously fall dead, and also I’m curious about what he wants, so I ask, “Anyway, what’s up?” He’s never called before, and the reasons he could be calling now are swimming through my mind.
Or one reason is swimming—the reason that he might be calling for a date. The other ideas are drowning in my optimism.
“Actually, I…” He pauses, as though he’s nervous too, which, of course, is impossible, but wouldn’t it be nice if I could let myself think that? That he’s as off-balance around me as I am around him?
In his hesitation, the hopeful tension grows until I can’t stand it. “Yes?”
“I wondered if you were free later today,” he says quickly—excitedly, maybe. “I need to see you.”
“You do?” It’s probably not cool to question it. “I mean, no, I’m not. Or…did you ask if I was busy or if I was free?”
“You know, I don’t remember now.”
I let out a chuckle that sounds an awful lot like a giggle. “Well, whatever you said, I’m not busy. I could see you. If you want.” Way to sound nonchalant, Devi.
“I do want.” His tone is so low I almost am unsure that’s what he really said. Louder, he says, “That’s great. I have a meeting right now, but I could do three-ish?”
Somehow I manage to speak like an intelligent human being as we arrange the specifics. Then we hang up, and I clutch the phone to my chest and let out an uncharacteristic squeal.
Two women jogging by throw me narrow glances, but who cares? I already have to find another post office to patronize, and I have a date with Logan O’Toole.
* * *
When I arrive at the coffee shop where we’d agreed to meet, I find him already in line to order. He hasn’t seen me yet, and I take the opportunity to check him out. He’s wearing jeans and a white T-shirt, not too tight, but thin enough to make out the muscles in his back. I’m overwhelmed with sense memory—the way he smelled, the way his fingers dug into my jaw as he held the sides of my face, the way his tongue felt darting over my skin, between my lips.
I shiver. It’s been three years, and, yet, his is the only touch I remember.
I come up behind him in the line and nudge my shoulder against the back of his arm.
“Hey, there you are.” He turns to give me the hug that’s standard in Europe and Hollywood, and I have to force myself not to audibly sigh or cling.
I’m disappointed when he pulls away. But then he glides his eyes down my body, and I think I might not care if he never touched me again, as long as he keeps looking at me like he is now. His stare is invasive and w
arm and thoroughly sees every bit of me.
I’m suddenly shy, which is strange. Because I’ve been naked with Logan O’Toole, and yet I’ve never felt as undressed as I do when he looks me over now. My outfit is casual—tan short shorts and a cream halter-top. I spent forever choosing it, but I glance down at my appearance, trying to see myself with different eyes, imagining what he sees, and I can’t figure it out. The girl I see is curvy and lush with dark exotic features and piercing eyes. She’s beautiful—I’ve never doubted my allure—but compared to the women he spends his time with on a daily basis, I’m same old, same old.
So why is he gazing at me as though he’s never seen anything like me before? Why am I certain no one will ever see me this wholly again?
In an effort to break the delicious tension, I ask, “Am I late?”
“Nope. I’m early,” and he’s still looking at me like he could devour me, and the air in the shop is stifling, and my clothes feel heavy and tight, and I’m not sure how I’ll make it through a minute with him let alone a whole afternoon, and then it’s our turn at the register, and he finally breaks his gaze and I can breathe again.
He orders first then gestures to me. I order my usual black Americano and give the barista my name. Logan pays then we step aside in unison to wait while our drinks are prepared.
Logan stuffs his hands in his pockets and gives me a curious glance. “So you go by Devi all the time?”
“Well, it’s my name.”
“For real? You changed it legally or…?”
“It’s what my parents named me. They’re sort of hippies.” That’s an understatement, but I don’t want to scare him away on the first date.
Then again, maybe it’s best to be upfront. “Okay, they’re actual hippies. No sort of about it. They believe in self-fulfilling prophecy—they name things what they want them to be.”
“They wanted you to be a porn star?”
“They wanted me to be a goddess.”
“So, yes.” He waits for me to laugh before saying, “But Dare can’t be your last name.”
I shake my head. “It’s not. It’s short for Daryani. My full name is Devi Arezu Daryani.” I’ve gone through periods of both pride and shame at having such a Middle Eastern name. I love that it’s unique and exotic, but the stereotyping that comes with it, notsomuch. I’ve had racial slurs slung at me on more than one occasion—everything from camel jockey to mosquito to nightclub bomber. Airport security is always a pain in the ass. I swear I’m on a permanent watch list, pulled aside for additional searching every damn time.
But when I deliver my whole name to Logan, I say it with dignity. It’s impossible not to feel self-respect with him. Even when his eyes wander to other parts of my body, he seems to be intently interested in what I have to say.
“What does Arezu mean?” He pronounces it pretty well for having heard it so quickly—ah-REH-Zaw—and the sound of him saying a part of my name that no one typically even attempts gives me goosebumps. I wish he’d say it again and again. Wish he’d say it in a more intimate setting. Wish I could hear him growl it and groan it and make it his own.
“It means ‘longed for.’”
“How appropriate,” he says quietly, and since he has no idea the struggle my parents went through to have me, the series of miscarriages and fertility rituals, I have to assume he’s flirting, and I look away, suddenly warm.
“You know why I picked O’Toole for my name?”
I turn back to him. “Why?”
“Because I have plenty of O’Toole.”
“How appropriate,” I say, because it’s funny and because I want him to know I hadn’t missed it when he’d said it.
The smile he gives me makes me ache in places I shouldn’t be thinking about in public.
So I don’t think about them. “Is Logan your birth name?”
“Nope.”
“Then what is it?”
He stretches past me to grab the two coffee cups from the barista. “I’ll never tell.”
I realize he’s serious about not telling when he immediately dives into another subject as he leads me to a sitting area in the back corner of the shop. “Hippies, huh? Then they’re cool with your line of work?”
I take a seat in a wicker chair. “They’re cooler than cool. They support me in everything I do as ‘long as I’m happy and fulfilled.’ Which is nice.” I recognize how contrary my tone is, and I’m compelled to expand. “Just, I sometimes think it would be nicer if they would be more parent-y and told me what to do instead.”
Logan’s brow rises as he sits across from me and sets our drinks down on the table between us. “What to do about what?”
“I don’t know. Anything. Everything. My career. School. My life.” Listening to myself, I realize how young I am or how much older Logan is, and suddenly I feel awkward and immature. “Maybe I’m just not very good at adulting.”
“Oh, adulting is terrible. I recommend only doing it when absolutely necessary. Like when you’re out of clean clothes or when you’re trying to decide whether or not to put on a condom. Beyond that, leave the adulting to adults.”
I grin as I tilt my head to study him. “Strange that someone with that philosophy would choose to go into the adult film business.”
“But that’s a misnomer. Porn is the least adult-y line of work there is, except for maybe, say, clowning.”
“Such respect for your job,” I laugh. “Do you even like what you do?”
“Are you kidding me? I fucking love it. Pun intended.”
I take a sip of my coffee, enjoying how easy the conversation is. I’ve watched pretty much every Logan O’Toole video out there—interviews and candid conversations as well as his porns. And while I’d realized he was charming, it’s a lot different having his charm directed at me. It feels strangely intimate, more intimate than having his lips on my privates, and I want to explore this intimacy as long as he’ll let me. “What do you love about it? Besides the fucking, I mean.”
His brow creases as though he’s thinking, but his answer comes fairly quickly. “The hours are good. The money’s decent. The after-parties are the best time there is, and there’s little-to-no stigma for sleeping with your coworkers.”
My heart flips at the wink he gives me and any response I had escapes me.
Fortunately, he’s still capable of conversation. “What about you? I’ve only ever seen you in lesbian porn, except for the film we did together.” He avoids eye contact as he mentions our scene, and I wonder if he thinks that’s polite or if it’s because he’s thinking of Raven. It hasn’t been long since they’ve broken up, and I have a strong suspicion that she is to blame for his strange behavior at Vida’s party.
I don’t want Raven in his thoughts, so I decide to sidestep the reference to that scene, and the minute I do I realize he said he’s seen my work. Which shouldn’t be a shock since a lot of people have seen my work, and he is very in tune with what’s going on in the industry.
But, oh my God. He’s watched my work. How had that possibility never crossed my mind, and why do I find that so goddamned hot?
He grins, knowing he’s thrown me off-balance. “So you mentioned maybe doing some more mainstream stuff. Have you decided? Will you go wider?” he asks, a devilish spark in his eyes. “Again, pun intended.”
“Maybe. If I got the right offer.” Innuendo intended.
He leans in and rests his elbows on the table between us. “What would the right offer look like? I’m curious.”
It would look just like you. We’re flirting, and if I were really brave, that’s what I’d say. Or, if I wanted to be a touch more demure, I could say, Make your bid and I’ll tell you if you’re close. It’s not a case of not having the snappy comebacks, because I do.
But even with the teasing banter, I haven’t got a sense of what’s going on between us, or what he intends to happen, or why he’s asked me out, and the uncertainty prompts me to be cautious. “I still haven’t decided what I’m l
ooking for in a P in V shoot. You were right about one thing—even aside from anal, I’d want to feel safe. That’s important to me. I have no problem taking my clothes off and fucking a stranger, but I’ve got to have complete say in what happens with my body both on and off set.”
“Of course.”
I relax muscles I didn’t know were tense when Logan doesn’t automatically get defensive about my insinuation that the there are sets in the business that are not safe, especially for women. Too many times consent gets blurred when the camera turns off and an aroused male doesn’t behave any differently than he did when the record light was on. It’s not a pretty side of the industry, but it’s also nothing new, and, actually, there are many professionals taking strides to change it.
“Other than that…” I consider. “I guess I’d want to feel like I’m doing something important or innovative. The girl-on-girl work that I do is important because the producers I’ve chosen to shoot with are all very pro-feminist and ethnically diverse. They’re bold. They’re progressive.”
He nods. “That’s not always as easy to find in the het environment.”
"No, definitely not.” I cringe inwardly as I realize that venturing into politics on a first date is not the sexiest of moves. I won’t pander or downplay my convictions to impress a guy, but I need to be sensitive to the fact that I’m talking about his world. “I mean, it’s getting better. I think. I hope.”
“I think it is. There’s still work to do,” he says, and I’m relieved that he seems sincere. “There’s always work to do, but I’d like to say I’ve seen a change even in the decade I’ve worked in the industry. I’d like to say I’ve been part of the change, and I want to help move it even further forward. Not just in terms of diversity and safety, but also in terms of artistic quality.”
Artistic quality is not a buzzword I’ve heard from many of the producers I’ve worked with, and it hits me that even though Logan’s films are always on trend, they also have a deeper level to them and tons of visual appeal. “Are you one of those people that misses old-school feature films?”
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