The Truth about Porn Star Boyfriends

by Sunniva Dee

  “I mean, you’re not a virgin, correct? If you are, that’s okay too. I don’t mind.”

  No way?

  “No, I’m not!” I bark without thinking. How dare he? What is it to him anyway, and what the hell’s wrong with being a virgin?

  “Are you a virgin?” I fold my arms over my chest, which gives my boobs an unintended boost. For a second, his gaze flits down from my face, and I huff, letting go of my grip. I create space between us on the couch before I glare back up at him.

  “I’ve made you uncomfortable,” he murmurs.

  “Well, that was rude to ask someone on a first date, don’t you think?”

  “Of course. Forgive me.” His eyes go tender as he nods, but he can’t make it sound like he means it.

  “That’s pillow-talk, not first-date talk,” I grumble.

  There’s choked friction in his throat. When he opens his mouth, I get the feeling he can’t hold back: “I’ll pillow-talk you any day.” He bites his lip, the indentation beneath his teeth accentuating its plumpness.

  I growl something unintelligible, which makes him snort. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be laughing.”

  “So how many have you slept with?” I twist my arms into a stern knot. See, I can be rude too. I’m taking charge.

  “Depends on what you mean. Everyone or women only? And do you mean all the way, or does lapping count?”

  I curse under my breath. He refills my champagne with sure hands while I seethe with insecurity. I also can’t help wondering if he means having lap dances or licking people… down there. I’m definitely not asking.

  To save face, I angle my chin high and meet his stare. I’m starting to think those golden flecks in there only appear when he’s excited. I wonder if they’re there when he’s aroused. Like, sexually aroused.

  “Women,” I say, “and no… lapping.”

  “In the cookie or does the backdoor count? No,” he muses, cutting himself off, “that’s not a fair question. It’s all the way either way, even when the receptor has a cookie.”

  “Cookie?” I repeat and regret it while I process the only possible meaning. I shoot a look around us. The neighboring booth holds a group of teenagers, and a few of the girls have had their eyes on my date all night. I hope they’re not listening in.

  “Mhm. Cookie.” He smiles mischievously.

  Ciro enjoying cookies is something I don’t want to picture right now. He’s so rude! “Where’s the bathroom?” I interrupt our moment.

  “I’m sorry. I’ve made you uncomfortable again.” The remorse on his face is part genuine, part playful. “I suppose it doesn’t help that I was trying to give you a truthful answer? Let’s go, beautiful. Let me show you the bathroom.”

  As he places a hand to the small of my back and guides me forward, he leans down and lets his lips brush my ear. “You know, I saw you as soon as I entered Mintrer’s. You’re absolutely irresistible, and I knew I needed to ruffle you up.”

  I want to go, What’re you talking about? or Whatever, dude, but my feelings are partying together—anger, heat, desire, annoyance—so I’m better off with silence.

  In the car, Ciro wants to loop by his house so I can meet Princess before he drives me home.

  “No thank you.” I tip my nose up, feeling prim under his scrutiny. It doesn’t matter how intriguing a man is. A girl can only take so much. Ciro’s gaze cools.

  “How about tomorrow?”

  “Working. I have the dogs in the morning, then I have the evening shift at Mintrer’s.” It’s good. I need to process him in peace. I’m crazy attracted to him, but there’s something off about him. It’s like his barefaced words are one layer, and I have no idea if I’ll like the other layers better or worse.

  “I could meet you with Princess at the dog park.”

  My heart does a jump. “You don’t work tomorrow?”

  “I do, but not until the afternoon.”

  “Raincheck.” Whoa, and if I saw myself from the outside right now, I wouldn’t believe it. I’m rain-checking quite possibly the sexiest man in the world. “Mr. Dakapoulos isn’t feeling well, so I’m going to hang out with him and the dogs at his house.”

  Ciro nods solemnly and drives me back into the Valley. In his full-breed cat of a car, he drives slowly, keeping a big-band tune on low in the background. I wonder if he’s upset.

  A stray lock of hair rests over a cheekbone. It makes him appear less godly, less the ruler of female hormones. On impulse, I stroke it to the side of his face. I don’t tuck it behind his ear, because that wouldn’t look masculine and this man is all male. He turns to me, searching my eyes.

  “I’m sorry about tonight. I get excited sometimes. I forget myself and say too much in good company. I like you.” He blows his cheeks up, eyes beautiful and full of honesty. “A lot. Can I call you again sometime?”

  My body reacts to the word “sometime.” There’s no doubt that I want to see him again. On an exhale, I tell him, “Yes.”

  The weekend passes slowly, my regular routine uninterrupted. Once my roommates stop teasing me about “Bentley,” as they call Ciro, it’s just me and my phone tucked close at all times.

  I keep going through our conversation, seeing where he blew it and where I lost it. The date went so well for so long. He’s such a great guy, and then, out of the blue...

  I could probably have stopped him right away. It would have worked. I mean, he did apologize once I spelled out how off-putting his sex-chatter was.

  Our date didn’t end on a good note, but I still want him to call me. I could call too, of course—this is the twenty-first century. Maybe I will. Not for a while though, because I’m not desperate.

  Then again, Ciro has no part in my grand plan. I don’t need a guy. My life is complicated enough as it is, and a new guy is the opposite of maintaining Status Quo.

  By Wednesday, Frieda’s complaining about how boring I am. “You’re, like, anxious, Savannah. It’s not that actor dude still, right? They’re all assholes, which he more than proved on your date.”

  I fill two glasses with ice and pour Sprite over it. Then I dry the glasses clean and straighten to scan the restaurant with my eyes. My focus ends on Ciro’s booth from last Thursday. Tomorrow it’s a week since I met him.

  “I can’t believe myself, Frieda.” I groan and stick my hands into my apron pockets. “But you should have seen him at the restaurant. He was so attentive and interested. He hardly even talked about himself. It was all about me, and every little thing I said he found interesting.”

  “And see, that’s odd. Guys loove to talk about themselves. Their jobs or whatever.” She throws her hands up. “He’s not even on Facebook. With his name, he should be easy to find, but there’s straight up no one with that name. Doesn’t it make you wonder if he made it up?”

  “No, it doesn’t, because I processed his credit card myself, and Ciro Silveira is definitely his name.”

  “Yeah, well.” Frieda scowls like she does when she thinks hard, a black strand of hair escaping her ponytail and hitting her nose. She blows it away, eyes brightening. “He has an alias. An artist name.”

  “Of course. How did I not think of that?” I feel a smile ease on. It sinks again though, because what good does it do me? “Now all we have to do is guess it and read the dirt on him.”

  A low snort escapes Frieda, and I can’t help joining her. We work to keep our crack-up from the customers.

  “Time to make a list of possible names.”

  “Right. Then we search da internets,” she jokes. Frieda punctuates her statement with fingers running over imaginary computer keys, important frown between her eyes.

  “I have an idea. If you get his picture, we can Google him by photo.”

  “He’d have called me by now if he were still interested. But I can lurk in an aisle of his local supermarket and hope h
e pops by sometime. Except he probably has a housekeeper for that.”

  “Hey, it’s worth a try.” Frieda bobs her head. “There’s a Ralphs and a Vons at the foot of Hillside. You might want to divide your time equally between the two.”

  My laughter flows a little too free, so when Il Signore calls me to his corner, I’m prepared for a reprimand.

  Dark, bushy brows meet me. They’re so low they almost conceal his eyes. Signor Brocelli reaches my shoulder, but his demeanor makes up for his stature. He has no issue running this place with an iron fist.

  “Savannah, I have a delivery for you.”

  “A what?” We don’t do deliveries.

  “A delivery. Laylah is packing it in the kitchen. It should be ready any minute now. Do you have your car?”

  “Yeah, but...?” This is all new. Plus, a few of my colleagues, especially the kitchen guys, would’ve been ecstatic for a trip outdoors, and even Il Signore knows I’m not fond of driving. I can’t ask, Why me? though, without breaching employee-boss protocol.

  “Bene. Frieda!” he barks, and my friend scurries over. “Take Savannah’s tables and let Charlotte know if it gets busy. Savannah has an errand.”

  Twenty minutes later, I’m winding up Hillside, passing mansions set at a comfortable distance from each other in the yellow dust. I’m to press a buzzer on a gate number fifty-four—which I do—and deliver to a Marisa Brandt.

  I’m let in to a long driveway that ends in front of a no-nonsense, square three-story with a garage on the opposite side. Huge and unhospitable, it looks made of concrete, stingy on that home-sweet-home feel.

  I’m busy pondering Ciro and his Hillside funkis bunker when the door opens and he’s right there, in grey slacks, a black tee, and barefoot.

  “Ciro?” I thought I remembered everything about him, like the low, musical murmur as he says my name, but I hadn’t done his eyes justice. Tonight, I can’t see any flecks of gold or silver in them. The base color isn’t even the pale green I remember. Is it the light or are they full-on aqua?

  “Savannah, come in. You have our food?”

  Who’s Marisa Brandt?

  “This is crazy,” I say.

  “It is?”

  “Yeah, Il Signore never does deliveries. His whole point is to slow the dining experience and make people relax.”

  “Is that your boss?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, everyone can be bought.”

  “Nuh-huh, not me.”

  “In the business world.” Ciro narrows his eyes. “And I’m not in the business of buying people.”

  I’m not sure if he’s trying to read me with those slits or if I’ve offended him, so I play it safe. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to imply that you—” I pull in a breath. He’s filling the hallway. “I’m just...”

  “Flustered. It’s okay.” He relieves me of the bags of food and guides me inside with a hand at the small of my back. “I did order a waitress, though. I hope that doesn’t make you feel bought.”

  “A waitress?”

  “Yes, and a companion for the evening, also you in case you wondered.”

  I look up to catch his smirk as he passes me a corner-of-the-eye glance. “Am I treading too close to buying people with that?”

  “Renting. You’re renting me,” I joke too, because I can do this. “I’m your rent-a-girl for the evening.”

  “Not my call girl?” His stare is devious. “I did call for you, and you’re a girl.”

  Agh, why does he do this? And right away too. It’s like all of his jokes center around one thing. Unfortunately, the smoldering side effect is that it makes me extra, extra aware of him. The man reeks of virility.

  I’ll never say this out loud, but I wonder if he’s all talk and no action. He could be the worst, flaccid lay you’d ever have.

  On the second floor, he lets me through a baby gate at the top of the stairs, and I find myself at the mercy of what must be Princess. She snorts and slurps, licking me wherever she reaches while trying to rear up on her hind legs. Her efforts are in vain. She’s a tad front-heavy.

  “Oh goodness, you’re cute,” I coo. “You’re a… hmm.” I twist my lip between my teeth, angling my head back to her owner. He wears a proud papa grin until I break the news to him.

  “I’m sorry, but the seller fooled you. That is not an American bulldog. She’s pitbull, through and through.”

  “Shit.” He cradles the bridge of his nose in mock disappointment. “Are you sure?”

  I sink to my knees to hug her, but then I’m knocked over by her exuberance. Princess isn’t exactly ladylike as she hips my face, then French-kisses me so hard Ciro has to intervene.

  He pulls her off me, a fist clenching some manly spiked collar. Princess’ body wiggles, a prolongation of her tail as she waits for me to pick up where she left off in our kiss fest.

  “So, American bulldog, huh?” I let him lead me into his kitchen, which is restaurant-sized with all stainless steel and slate-colored marble.

  He shows me a barstool by the counter. Pulls out a bottle of rosé and starts on the cork. “Eh. People are so afraid of pitbulls. I always lie to new people.”

  “White lies are one of your things? Nice.”

  His face becomes serious. “No. I do my best not to lie, because it doesn’t get me anywhere. I end up in trouble when I do. I’ve learned the hard way that it’s better to reveal the truth, ugly as it might be, than to paint things pretty when they’re not.”

  “Oh.” My hand is on top of Princess’ head.

  I half-expect his irises to change with his mood, but they’re still aqua, my favorite color. There’s pain in them, the smallest hint. My eyes sink from his sincere expression.

  “We’ll eat on the terrace.”

  His terrace is vast and lush with plants so green they’re out of their element in this desert climate. A small table for two presses against the banister, from which we have an astonishing view of the Valley.

  I was ready to perform my waitress duties, but he isn’t letting me. He’s quite the waiter himself, actually, shaking out a black napkin and extending it over my lap.

  “No wine for me, please. I’m driving,” I say.

  “A half glass?” His voice warms my abdomen. Silky and mid-level deep, he caresses me with it, and I don’t want to say no. Princess’ stare is pleading too, and I’ve already decided she’s getting my leftovers. Not sure how Ciro will feel about that, so to be on the safe side, I’ll wait until he takes a restroom-or-kitchen break. By the looks of her, Princess will inhale the food so fast there’ll be no proof of our crime.

  “It’s like suburbia twinkles more than the stars,” I say and accept the glass Ciro holds out.

  Sinking into his seat across from me, he lets his stare glide over the Valley. “You’re right. The city lights drown out the sky. It’s light pollution. Someday, I’ll take you to my cabin in Montana. We’ll go in the winter so you really get to experience dark nights and bright stars. The moon looks insane there.”

  “Of course you have a cabin in Montana.”

  Eyes glittering, he enjoys that I tease him.

  “Is it the size of your funkis bunker, your cabin?”

  He chuckles softly, stretching a hand out to pet Princess’ head. She curves into it, and I suddenly want to be there with her, getting a taste of his touch. “Naw, it’s not as big as my house. I wanted it easy to take care of so I don’t have to bring Mrs. Brandt or anything.”

  “Marisa Brandt?” I ask. “That’s who I was delivering this food to.”

  “Mrs. Brandt keeps my house neat. And orders food.” He emphasizes the latter with a nod.

  “How old is Mrs. Brandt?” I ask before I think better of it.

  He arches a brow as he lifts the bottle to me again. I’ve already drained my half a glass, and I really wan
t more. But work.

  “I have you for the rest of the night,” he says, reading my thoughts.

  “Ohhkay.”

  I accept while he tells me Mrs. Brandt is an older Hispanic lady married to her gringo husband for decades. She works for Ciro to get out of the house now that her hubby has retired. Apparently, he doesn’t stop talking.

  “So you took her in because you’re so nice?” I totally wink at him, a full glass of wine later. I’m in happy-territory. Even to gods I can say things now.

  “Exactly. I’m a saint.” He winks back, thick lashes seeming to flutter over his eyes before he stands to find a dimmer on the wall. The lights lower around us. With sure, sinuous shifts, he accommodates himself in the chair again and speeds up my heart.

  He slides his elbows forward on the table top. “So, you’ve told me about your past. I know about your life in the Valley, your jobs, and how you like your world to be predictable. Your mother sounds on the impulsive side though, the opposite of you?”

  “Ha, you could say that.”

  He twists his dreamy mouth, thinking. Plump, full, pink—god it’s pink. He opens his hand and takes mine while he considers his next words. I remain calm on the outside, even when he draws small circles with a fingertip in my palm. Thank you, wine.

  “Is it too early to ask how you like your sex?”

  I suck in a breath, because yes, it’s too early. Is it ever the right time unless you’re an old married couple in need of sex therapy? Briefly, I think of runaway trains without drivers; call me old-fashioned, but most people kiss first.

  “You’re blushing. It must be a sensitive subject for you. It is too early, isn’t it?”

  Flecks of gold have surfaced in his irises, and I wonder if it’s from interest or excitement. My abdomen heats again as my gaze draws to his neck, to the dip at the center of his collarbone and the expanse of golden skin beneath an open button.

  “Of course not. After all, we’re on a second date. Isn’t it time we talk about intercourse?” I roll my eyes.

  I don’t think there’s anything sexier than when he bites his lip. Oh wait, he adds a tilt of his head, causing his bed-do to lend stray locks to gravity. They shine in the low light.