Exrated

by Stevie J. Cole

  She grabs my face, tilting my head down. “Look at me, Tyler,” she says through a moan.

  I stare at her and the way she’s looking at me like it’s the last time she’ll ever see me pulls at something in my chest. I trace my fingertip along the corner of her lip before I kiss her. The kiss is deep and lingering and something I know I’ll never find with anyone else so I just hold my mouth to hers, swallowing back each little moan that escapes her. Within moments, her nails drive into my shoulders, and she presses her sweaty forehead to mine as her entire body tenses. Her moans grow frantic and unhinged as she rides out the orgasm ripping through her body. The way her pussy clamps around my cock—fucking shit. I push up against her, driving so deep inside of her, my dick hits her end, and I fucking come so hard my vision blurs.

  We both collapse on the bed out of breath and sweating. I grab onto her and drag her across the bed and to my chest and here we lie. Nothing could ever be this right. She said it didn’t matter to her if I quit. Well, she also said she’d never fuck me again. The thing with love is it’s fucking stubborn and so am I.

  The sunlight wakes me up. Tyler’s arm is wrapped around me, his warm chest pressed against my bare back. At one point, this is exactly how I imagined my life—waking up to him every morning. My chest tightens and I fight back tears because as much as I want this, I know it could never work. If I ask him to quit, I’m afraid he’ll resent me, and besides, I’ve got my career.

  If this series works out for me and I end up getting roles in movies, I’ll be gone more than I’ll be home and how is that fair to him? The people we’ve turned into aren’t the kind of people who can hold down a relationship, and to be honest, neither of us are that responsible. I think maybe I should wake him up and tell him goodbye, but goodbyes suck. And, let’s be honest, I tell him goodbye, I tell him this can go nowhere, we’ll argue. I’ll end up in tears. I would rather have this memory. Is it selfish? Yes. Is it the coward’s way out? Absolutely. But we all have our faults, and mine is letting this boy go.

  I start to get up, but the second I move, he holds me tighter. “Stay,” he says in a sleepy voice. “Just stay a little bit longer.”

  Fighting against the emotions tearing me up on the inside, I relax and give into him. I close my eyes and fall back asleep in the arms of the boy who will always be my entire world, even if he can never really be mine.

  The sound of the smoke alarm startles me awake. I sit bolt upright in the empty bed, my heart pounding. I start toward the door and realize I’m naked. Fuck. This is why you don’t sleep naked. Thankfully, I find my clothes at the foot of the bed, throw them on, and hurry into the hallway where there’s a thin cloud of smoke creeping along the ceiling.

  “Fucking shit, Jake.” Heather’s voice floats down the hall. “The bacon’s fucking black. What are you trying to do, burn the house to the ground? Jesus!”

  “I didn’t mean to burn it. You’re the one that wanted bacon.”

  “Well, I don’t want charred bacon.”

  “Then you should have checked it while I was taking a shit.”

  “Oh, God. You’re such a fucking guy.”

  I grab onto the wall and hold my other hand to my chest, my heart banging against my ribs as I attempt to calm down. Heather walks into the hall, fanning her hand in front of her face. She stops when she sees me.

  “Well, hello. I didn’t know you were here.” She smiles before opening the front door to let some of the smoke out.

  “Yeah… where’s Tyler?”

  She shrugs. “Hey asshole, where’s Porn Scum?”

  “He went to work.”

  “He went to work,” Heather repeats and my stomach knots.

  “Yeah. I heard the asshole.” It shouldn’t bother me that he’s at work because I knew this was not going anywhere, but it does. “Do you have your car?” I ask.

  “No, you need to go home?”

  “Yeah, I gotta get packed.”

  “God,” Heather says with a smile. “I can’t believe you got that role! I’m so excited and pissed at the same time. I don’t want you to leave me.”

  “I know…”

  “It’s gonna take a while to get over the void, you know?”

  “I know.”

  Heather narrows her gaze, studying me. “I’ll take you home, but we’re obviously gonna have to get breakfast anyway since fucker in there can’t cook.”

  “Fuck off,” Jake calls from the kitchen.

  “So, are you two a thing or something?” I ask, arching a brow.

  “Uh, fuck buddies. He’s hung, he’s good in bed, and I’m horny. Works out well.”

  Nodding my head, I go back inside Tyler’s room to grab my things. I sit on the edge of the bed to slip my shoes on, and my eyes land on a stack of mail on the corner. I take a pen from my purse and scrawl a note on the back of an empty envelope then toss it in the middle of his bed, telling myself sometimes love just isn’t enough before I leave.

  Hudson’s staring at me, tapping his fingers on the doorframe. “You’re sure about this?”

  “Yeah, I am.”

  He nods before pushing away from the wall. “Alright, you’re done as soon as you finish up the scenes I have you booked for.”

  I shake my head. “I’m not doing any more scenes.”

  Hud’s face reddens and an annoyed laugh rumbles from his chest. “Yeah, that’s not going to work. I’ve got you booked for three more films, and just because you’ve had some moral revelation doesn’t mean I’m going to lose money.”

  “Whatever, dude.” I turn my back to him and head toward the door. “I’m sure Benson can do it.” Fuck him. I just quit. His next few movies are not my problem, and it’s not like I’m going to use him for a fucking reference.

  “Fine print in the contract, Tyler. You don’t work out your notice, I can sue you.”

  I stop midstride, my skin heating. Stretching my neck, I tense my jaw before spinning back around to face him.

  “I could sue you for all the losses I would incur. Basically, hundreds of thousands and you haven’t been in the industry long enough to afford that, now have you?” A sadistic, bastard-like grin spreads across his face.

  “Hud—”

  “It’s three films. Three films.”

  I want to punch him in his fucking freckled face. Out of instinct, I make my hands into fists. My blood pressure is through the goddamn roof. I don’t like being backed into a fucking corner. “I’m not doing three films!”

  “Legally, you have to.” He narrows his gaze on my briefly. “I tell you what. Just give me two. They are sequels, so I need the actor to be you, stop being such an indignant ass. What’s two more films? One today, then we can film Pirates of the Lesbians: Fuck My Chest on Friday.”

  I grit my teeth. I don’t want to give into him, but what other choice do I have? He’s right, I can’t afford for him to sue me, and trust me, that fuckface would have the papers drawn up by midday if I walk out of here. “Fine,” I say through a clenched jaw.

  “Good. Go get ready. Viagra is by the water bottles.”

  Groaning, I head to the dressing rooms to get ready. Two more fucking films. That’s it.

  The house is empty when I get home. I feel dirty as shit. All I can smell is Brandi’s candy-scented perfume all over me so I head straight to the shower. As soon as I get out, I see an envelope on the middle of my unmade bed. Smiling, I finish drying my hair with the towel and reach for the note.

  Tyler,

  As much as I wish this could be our life, it can’t. I’m moving to Atlanta to film a TV series…you’ve got a promising career in an industry I can’t manage sharing you with. As much as we love each other, we can’t change who we are to be together. That’s not how love works.

  I’ve loved you since I was six, and I’ll love you until I’m ninety-six, even if you aren’t really mine.

  Jemma

  Well, fuck.

  Three months later

  “I miss you,” Heather says
just before the video on the computer screen goes grainy.

  “I miss you too. How’s Jake?”

  “Good. We’re still fuck-buddying it.” She laughs. “I watched the premiere the other night. It’s fucking hilarious. Halfway through the show, I started crying because it’s not fair that you’re all the way in Atlanta. How much more money do they have to pay you before you can afford to have me move in and live rent free as your entertainment value.”

  I laugh. “Please move out here. It’s so lonely. Everyone here is all polite and prudish. You say the word vagina too loudly, and people give you dirty looks. It’s just not the same.”

  “I’m coming out in two months. Maybe I won’t go back.”

  I tap my fingers over my desk, struggling with whether to ask about him or not. I minimize the video call and type Johnny Depth into the search bar. Thousands of pictures populate on the screen. When I finally find one of him where he’s not balls deep in Brandi or Vee, I click on it. I stare at his face—his masculine jawline, those eyes, the slight stubble on his face and I sigh a little. I’m so angry with myself because now I’m back at the start. This picture should evoke hate, not sadness, not longing. Then, just like a movie reel, my mind flips through all those years I spent with him. All the moments of my life I gave him.

  “He really did quit, Jemma.” I close out of the browser and pull the video back up.

  “What? Jake quit dancing?” I ask, playing dumb.

  “No you fucking dick dribble.” Heather rolls her eyes. “Tyler. He quit doing porn.”

  “Oh, well, good for him.”

  My doorbell chimes and I glance at the clock, swearing when I realize I’ve totally lost track of time. “Shit, I gotta go. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  “Is that Grayson,” she asks, practically swooning. Grayson is my co-star, my love interest on the show. We’re not together, although according to the tabloids, I’m already pregnant with twins. “Yes, but we are not together.”

  “I can’t believe you would lie to me like that.”

  The doorbell rings again. “I’m not. I have to go.”

  “Let me talk to him.”

  “No.”

  “Please?”

  “No, you are that friend I have to explain to people, and as soon as he came on the camera you’d show your tits to him and ask him how long his cock is or some crazy shit and then I’d be stuck trying to explain that shit.”

  She smirks. “Well, my tits are epic.”

  “They are. Talk to you later.”

  I shut the laptop, hop up, and try my best to touch up the shitty makeup job from earlier. The doorbell dings again before I reach it. When I open the door, Grayson is braced in the doorway. His eyes skim over me, and he laughs. “You look cute.”

  “Shut up,” I say, closing the door behind me.

  “What? Cute is a good thing.”

  “Cute is not a good thing. Puppies and kittens are cute. Women are not supposed to be cute.”

  “Noted. So Thai?” he asks, placing his arm around my waist as he guides me toward his Land Rover Sport.

  “Sure,” I say, yanking away from his hold.

  “Oh, come on. The publicist said it would be good to give way to the rumors, how the hell are we gonna get on the front of the tabloids if you won’t even let me touch you?

  The locks to his car clicks and he opens the door. Sighing, I climb in. Greyson’s a good guy, but I hate that we are faking this shit just to get our names in the press more.

  “You were a fluffer? Grayson asks, tears streaming down his face. He’s laughing so hard everyone in the restaurant is staring.

  “God, I was not a fluffer. Why does everyone think that?”

  “You do know that people don’t actually clean off dildos, right?”

  “What? They most certainly do. I had to clean those off all the time.”

  He takes a few deep breaths before he wipes the tears from his cheek. “Look, my aunt did porn. They’re supposed to clean their own shit. He had you doing that as a joke.”

  “No. You’re full of shit.”

  He shakes his head. “No, I’m serious. My aunt said every time they hired a new girl that had no idea what was going on, someone would trick them into that shit. You fell for that for how long?”

  Sighing, I roll my eyes. “The entire fucking time.” I drag my hands down my face, suddenly no longer interested in the curry in front of me as I recount how many dildos and strings of anal beads I wiped down. “That fucking job was an experience, that’s for sure.”

  “And you never thought about doing porn?” The waiter stops by our table to refill our drinks. I can see him fighting a smile.

  “Uh, no.”

  “Shame.”

  “Fuck off, Grayson. I’m not a whore.”

  “First of all, doing porn wouldn’t make you a whore, and second, I saw the Pandemic Sorrow video, Jemma.”

  Heat washes over my face. I know my cheeks have to be blood red right about now. “Great,” I mumble beneath my breath as I reach for my water.

  “What?” he asks. “It’s no big deal. Everyone fucks. You made a tape, so what?”

  “Can we just not talk about that?”

  “Yeah, sure.” He pushes the plate away and tosses his napkin onto the table. “I don’t think you’re a bad person if that’s what your worried about. It’s just funny because you seem so innocent and all. That’s it.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m embarrassed about it.”

  Grayson shrugs. “It’s not like that defines you as a person unless you let it. Who you are on the inside, that’s what should define you, not something you did without thinking about the repercussions down the road.”

  I narrow my gaze on him as we stand from the table. It’s funny how things can make so much more sense when they come from another person. And now I feel like a cunt for telling Tyler I could never manage the fact that he had done porn. I had let that define him as a person when there is so much more to him than that.

  The Uber driver slams the breaks on, throwing me against the seat. “Jesus Christ! Are you sure you have a license?” I’ve been in the car with him for over an hour, and I’ve thought I was going to die at least ten times so far.

  “Atlanta traffic is terrible thing. Hard to drive in. Yes.”

  He jerks the wheel and flies across two lanes of traffic to get to the exit ramp. I should be at the airport right now, but instead, I bought a ticket to watch a filming of Disaster, the show Jemma’s on and this crazy-ass man is driving me to the studio. The breaks and tires scream when he slams to a stop.

  “Dis da studio. I take you no farther. You must go alone from here on, me amigo.”

  What the fuck is this, a secret mission? This dude is weird as fuck and smells like a can of tuna. I grab my bag, dig through my pocket and hand him the fare.

  “Bless you, mi amigo. Godspeed.”

  “Uh, yeah…” I climb out of the car and haven’t even shut the door when he swerves off, laying on his horn as he weaves in and out of traffic.

  I stare at the name on the side of the building: Treewood Studios. I’m still not even sure what the fuck I’m doing here. The thing is, for the past two months all I’ve done is think about her, then last week that fucking TV show aired and of course I watched it. She said the thing that bothered her most when we split up four years ago was that I didn’t fight for us, well, fuck, she can’t say that this time. Am I expecting anything? No, but damn it, at least this time I can say I tried. Nothing like beating a dead horse.

  There’s a line wrapping around the side of the building, and I stand at the back of it for thirty minutes before they let us in.

  There’s an androgynous security guard standing by the turnstile. As I start through the gate, it stops me.

  “You can’t take that bag in, sweetheart.” The voice is a little husky, but I think it’s a woman. My gaze drifts down, trying to make out if that’s a pair of tits or not. “Eyes up here, hot stuff.”

 
; I clear my throat and lift my gaze to the guard’s face. “I’m catching a flight afterwards,” I say.

  “Sorry.” He-she shrugs. “I can hold it for you.”

  Pulling the strap over my head, I hand it the bag. “Yeah, sure. Thanks.”

  A wide grin spreads across the she-beast’s face. “Anything for you, Mr. Depth.” I think it’s a woman. I think. It takes my hand, stamps my wrist, and then winks which causes my skin to crawl a little. I make my way inside and find my seat in the third row of bleachers. I’m impressed with how large this fucking studio is. There’re several different sets arranged within the room and monitors in front of the bleachers every few feet.

  The auditorium slowly fills up, the hum of the audience echoing from the tall ceilings. There’s a small round of applause, and I turn my attention toward the set. Some dopey looking guy struts across the stage and clears his throat.

  “Good afternoon. First and foremost, thank you for coming to watch a live filming of Disaster. What we want to do now is introduce you to the cast.”

  He steps to the side and holds out an arm. “Greyson Williams,” he says and the women in the crowd go fucking ape shit. I glare at that little fucker. It’s been all over the tabloids that they may be a couple, but there is no way in hell Jemma would go for a douche canoe like that. “Please welcome the lovely Jemma Morgan.”

  I watch as she walks across the stage with a huge smile spread across her face. She’s wearing a pale blue linen dress and her dark hair’s falling down her back in loose curls. Another cast member walks out, but I don’t even hear her name because I’m too busy staring at Jemma. The girl says something to her, and Jemma throws her head back laughing. Fuck me, she is perfect. I shout along with the rest of the audience. I’m busting at the fucking seams. I’m so proud of my titch.

  I sit there for the few hours it takes to film the episode, watching her, wanting her, fucking hating that shit has turned out the way it has. When the show is over, the coordinator lines the cast up right in front of where I am sitting. Jemma’s eyes lock on mine for a brief second. Her face washes white. I’m afraid she’s going to hit the floor any minute. After the cast has been led off stage, everyone in the auditorium stands and begins filing out—except me. I just stay right here. I don’t know what the fuck to do. I texted her after she left—only twice—but she never responded so I don’t even know if she has the same number. Sighing, I pull my phone from my pocket, pull her number up in the directory, and send her a text.