The Truth about Porn Star Boyfriends

by Sunniva Dee

“Is it?” I blame my yacht dream if I sound cryptic. My mother was never a stable influence, but a few of her sayings are golden nuggets. Like, “Dreams come from thoughts that are so daunting you censor them during the day.” I believe it.

  “Did you enjoy what we did last night?”

  I bite my lip against the flashback to euphoria. “Yeah. Maybe too much.”

  “I don’t believe you can enjoy something too much. Not if it doesn’t hurt anyone.”

  “Well, obsessions can damage you.”

  “What did you say?” He searches my face. I feel shy again and avoid meeting his gaze.

  “Just as an example, you know. Obsessions are unhealthy. Make people crazy. Not saying I’m...”

  “…obsessed with me?” His pitch is so low it makes me shiver when it caresses my ear.

  “Right. No, I’m not.”

  Ciro quiets. He doesn’t object, but I feel it when his smile grows against my cheek. “Okay, then. But so you know, I’m not afraid of obsessions. Because you”—he holds me out to kiss my forehead before he lowers me back again—“were made for me.”

  I have to get off him before I melt into a puddle. Said puddle would not have the ability to think for herself. He makes my mind blank and my body sing, and it’s far out of the roam of nice and still and Status Quo.

  I peck his mouth and sit up slowly, faking blasé until I straddle his midsection. He waits, following my moves calmly. He shouldn’t be watching me from down there, all pagan-god-like. I touch his nose with a finger to make this moment smaller. It’s playful and silly and easy, something people do to children. He blinks slowly, examining me with eyes that glitter.

  Stop it.

  “Tell me about your last film. The one in the Caribbean. What’s the storyline?”

  “Hmm, it won’t be released in a while. You want me to ruin the suspense for you?”

  “Yes, do it.” I try for lighthearted, but I’m not the actor in this room.

  “Down to the happy ending?”

  “Yes, everything. Wait, it’s romantic?”

  “Very.” He kisses the inside of my hand.

  “And you’re the lead or a side character sort of person?”

  “Lead. My leading lady is, sadly, Donnella again.”

  “Sorry.” I dance inwardly because I’m a terrible actor’s girlfriend. Guess I need to work on that.

  “Do you kiss her?”

  “Yeah. Gotta do some kissing.”

  And I definitely need to work on my jealousy. It’s just a kiss for crying out loud. One kiss, Savannah. Or several?

  I want to ask more details about the kissing, how many times, if they’re snuggling on a bed, if they have to fake nakedness on that bed, oh god, maybe on deck? I cannot for the life of me—

  Shhhhh. He doesn’t even like her.

  Meditation. I used to meditate when I was younger. I need to start up again. Or get a hobby. Pottery is a safe, uneventful hobby unless you break something.

  “Are you listening?”

  “Huh?”

  He laughs, passing my fingertips over his lips for individual, toe-curling kisses. “I started telling you the story of Caribbean Nights.”

  “Sorry, I spaced out. Tell me.”

  “Donnella’s character accepts the offer to get on a yacht with a friend and the friend’s boyfriend, me. We’re on deck, drinking and having a ball with the captain and a few crew members until we enter an electrical storm. The yacht has a mast, which is hit and kills my girlfriend and the captain. The boat with the rest of us onboard are being thrown into a time loop. Suddenly, we’re back in the eighteenth century and are boarded by pirates, Jack Sparrow-style, only they’re not as nice.

  “There’s a female pirate there, who starts to vie for my attention. I narrowly save Donnella’s life from the pirate, who becomes possessive after having spent a night with me. But it’s Donnella I supposedly love. Thanks to a school of electric eels, a crew guy and I manage to recreate the electrical storm and send our boat, with Donnella, the crew, and me on it, back to modern times. The story ends with Donnella and I making love in her apartment back in New York.”

  “Whoa, that’s an intricate story. Lots of stuff going down. Big budget?”

  “Medium.”

  “Will the movie look real, you think?” I chomp down on my tongue feeling rude for asking, but he smiles.

  “Honestly, the script wasn’t my style, and I doubt it’ll turn into the most realistic film I’ve ever made. It was good money, though, and thankfully most of it was easy and fun.”

  “The Donnella stuff?” I ask.

  “Easy. Not fun.”

  We share a smile while I think that the pirate girl was probably cute as heck. They always are in the movies. I try not to think of her.

  I’m in love. Crazy in love. I have a boyfriend, and he’s freaking amazing. Twice, we’ve visited my mother, and she’s rapidly falling in love with him too. He encourages her green thumb and eats her olives, which are never all the way done. The man even studies her abstract clay sculptures to the point of having suggestions as to what they represent.

  Some old proverb talks about food being the way to a man’s heart. If there’s one about women, I hope it recommends being awesome with our mothers.

  I admit that Mom is nuts and that it’s the reason Dad and she finally divorced. My father, a levelheaded small business owner, still runs his accounting firm back home.

  Mom used to be his ethereal counterpart, speaking poetry he didn’t understand and having babies completely different from one another. My siblings and I don’t see eye to eye on how to treat Mom, so we fell out of touch when I moved here in an effort to minimize the potential damage she’ll inflict. It’s the right thing to do, to be here for her. My mother, she’s crazy in a sweet, generous, genuine way.

  “Sheep balls,” Mom says now. She’s wearing a dress she’s made herself, sky blue with beige trims, and— Am I seeing this wrong or is there a cape falling partway down her back? It’s made of tulle, so it’s hard to determine.

  Ciro lifts his spoon between us. A grey lump wobbles on top of it in the broth. “Are you saying the meatballs are made from ground sheep?”

  “Yep,” my mother says. “I discovered this soup at IKEA a long time ago. Isn’t it just the loveliest flavor? Then I read up on it on the internet, and it’s from over there, in Scandinavia. It’s a hearty soup, don’t you think?”

  “Very hearty,” my boyfriend agrees, winking at her. I bite my lip, trying not to laugh. “And delicious. You know what else is hearty and delicious?”

  “I don’t.” My mom sits up straight, folding her hands in the most attentive version of herself. I swear she’s always at her most charming with Ciro. “Do tell.”

  “‘Hearty’ means good for your heart, I believe.” Ciro’s hand wraps around one of my chair legs and pulls me closer without looking at me. Eyes softening, he still watches my mother. “And ‘delicious?’ I’ll attempt my own definition of that. In my opinion, it means ‘so tasty you’d never want to be without it.’”

  I gasp as his arm snakes around my waist and nudges me flush against his body. Then the burn runs up my cheeks.

  God, I hate it when my mom notices that I’m embarrassed. In the right mood, she’s an expert at it too. Not even the pre-stage—the pinking of the tips of my ears—escapes her then.

  Mom beams. Oh yes, her hands clasp in one of those virginal displays of joy from old movies. “Yes, and...?” she prompts.

  “Mom, please!”

  “And your daughter is that for me. Good for my heart. Good for my palate. If I can help it, I’ll never be without her. Wish me luck.”

  My face feels like I just broke out with chickenpox. Ciro pulls me impossibly closer. “Don’t ever make me suffer, baby girl. Okay?”

  I let out an awkward laugh.
It’s just my mother, for Christ sake. I can take this. What I can’t take are the phone calls in which she swerves the subject toward my relationship and gives intimate advice on how I can keep the spark alive. If it’s the death of me, I’ll be keeping her in the dark about Ciro’s relentless spark.

  When she’s not inside herself, Mom reads people. This is Ciro and my second Sunday visit together, and he drove me to the stars and back last night. Three orgasms. Three! I’m still not used to his size. Sure, he feels amazing while we’re together, but afterward? Let’s just say, the feeling lingers on.

  The other day, Il Signore asked what was wrong with my leg. I couldn’t exactly tell him my leg was fine but that my love canal had gotten a workout, so I mumbled something about a pulled muscle. Today, my mother follows my return to the table with a vigilant stare. “Savannah, sweetie. Did you twist your ankle?”

  It’s a wam-bam, two-step process: suddenly hot face and drops sprouting from my hairline. No, three steps. Add lame tongue to the list.

  “She fell off her step ladder last night,” Ciro lies for me when I don’t speak up. “I gave her a poster she wanted to hang up herself. I caught her before she hit the floor, but she overextended a few muscles.”

  “Oh my! You should get it looked at.”

  “I took her to my physician. He says she’s okay but needs to stay off ladders for a while.” He smiles sweetly and pats his lap for me to sit.

  When we leave Mom’s, I say, “No more ladders for me, huh?”

  “That’s right.” He lifts a finger, wagging it slowly at me. “Enough with the climbing already.”

  “I feel that you owe me a poster now.”

  “Oh I’ll get you a poster.”

  “Cool. Make it of one of your films.”

  Frieda squints her eyes studying me. We’re having a rare night home alone. Lin has a tutoring session with a young German student in his room. They actually just locked the door, which makes me wonder what kind of tutoring he’s receiving. Not that it’s any of my business.

  “I don’t understand it. Your dude’s freaking the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. Don’t get me wrong—I mean nothing bad against you because you’re awesome and super-beautiful and everything too.”

  “Stop it. I know: I’m just the girl next door and that’s it. Ciro’s way out of my league.”

  “That’s not what I mean.”

  “Frieda, get over your excuses. No need to spend energy on them, because I’m not upset. Really, I’m as puzzled as you are. What does he see in me?”

  “You’re just a little introverted is all, and once people get to know you, they adore you. Don’t ever forget that you’re sweet, real, and full of, like, morals. You’re a really good person. Plus, you have a cool sense of humor. Plus, you’re smart.”

  “Plus, like, I’m like everyone else,” I joke.

  “Oh stop it. All I was thinking was, how did he pick you out in the restaurant and decide he wanted you? It’s romantic and awesome that he knew right away. But isn’t it just nuts though? I mean, what if you weren’t there, and say, Vickie was there instead? She’s blonde with big eyes too.”

  “Wow. Did you just say that?”

  “No. Nu-huh, I didn’t. That would’ve been rude. I don’t know what I say after a few tequila shots. You poured me the third one, so really that was your fault. Sorry, sorry. I love you. You know I luuuuvvve you.”

  She’s right though, and not only about Vickie. We have a slew of staff who works at Mintrer’s while auditioning. Truth is my restaurant has a catwalk of beautiful employees, and I’m just the next-door girl with the anxious stare.

  “Honestly, I can’t explain why he’s into me. And he’s moving so fast. We’ve been together for two weeks, right—”

  “Two months.”

  “No, officially we’ve been together together for two weeks.”

  She scoots me a margarita and nods. “Right, the proposal with the hot sex.”

  “Stop it. No proposal. Just the GF/BF thing.”

  “And the mind-freak sex.”

  I grin. Just thinking about him makes me warm down there. He’s left again, though, on another location shoot. This one’s four days long, and he’s been insisting for a week now that I find someone to step in for my shifts so we can go on a vacation together afterward. I mean, vacation? What? I don’t do vacations.

  “Lin wants to fuck him.”

  “Shut up! Omigod.” I snort out laughing. She lifts her second margarita at me, eyes dancing with laughter.

  “I’m serious! He told me the other night when you were at the opera or whatever with Ciro. We did peach vodka straight up, and boy, does he have a lot to say on a few shots. One: he’s sure Ciro has a cock the size of a girl’s forearm. Says he can tell from the outside because Ciro goes hard when he stares at you.”

  “Omigod!” Between Frieda and the booze, I’ve become the omigod-girl. “Lin stares at his zipper?”

  “As far as I understand, he stares at a bit more than his zipper.” She squeal-laughs it out, and we both fall apart, leaning over the counter and half-hugging. Of course Lin ballerina-toes into the kitchen, tugging his shirt into position over his pants as he does.

  “Oooh, the girls laugh. What you talk about? Flowr?” He winks at me. Everyone is happy that Ciro has stopped trying to barricade me in behind a wall of desire-red arrangements. Sam actually shook his hand thanking him the other day.

  “Just you and your crush on Ciro,” Frieda slurs out.

  “Clush?”

  “You want to have sex with Ciro.”

  “Ah, yes, yes.” He bows his head politely and waves princess-fast before he backs out with a bottle of rum. “You tell Lin when you sick of Ciro, Savannah. But first I tutor.”

  Ciro has been gone for three days. I’ve worked a lot as usual, but it’s different when you’re crazy in love and want your darling’s mouth on you nonstop. I get his words, every morning, every lunch hour, every afternoon. He’s there with me, calling, Skyping, Facebooking, whatever is convenient in the moment.

  My boyfriend is the most considerate man in the universe. He writes me words he doesn’t call poems because they’re not finished. “I just write when I think of you. A word or two or a sentence. It’s why they’re all odd-sounding.”

  “Can I see?” I ask when he tells me via video chat.

  “No, they look odd on paper. I write them to be said out loud.”

  “Really? You’re such a performer,” I tease, and I almost sound like I’m purring. He lowers his own voice into something that could stroke a girl into orgasm.

  “Guess I am, baby girl. You want to hear?”

  “Yes!”

  He lets out a breath, eyes on me and glittering.

  Gold-hearted heart-fillers

  Conquer detached worlds and morale-killers

  Frail but strong

  Beautiful but real

  She chases my truth and devours my love.

  I swallow, staring at him. The sparkle in his eyes freezes as he waits. When I don’t speak right away, he does.

  “Anyway.” He shrugs. “Just a little something. I like words and how true they can be. Actually, I like them when they’re not true too.”

  “Yeah. Wow, that was a lot in there, huh?”

  He chuckles, gaze brightening again. “Yeah, I tend to cram shit into one little cluster of them.”

  “Can I have it in writing?” I ask. “I don’t remember all of it.”

  He shakes his head slowly. “I can’t give you that. Ask something else of me.”

  “Why not?” I try to sound seductive, but it doesn’t come out the way it did a moment ago when I spoke without thinking. “You have it written down, right? You didn’t just invent all that?”

  His smile grows, making him look boyish and young. “You think highly of me, M
iss Savannah, if you think I can cough stuff up just by looking at you.”

  I blush. Then he adds, “Wait, maybe I could,” and bores a sensual stare into me. I blush harder.

  “You’re so cute when you get flustered,” he murmurs, accommodating himself on the screen to see me better. “I love it. I hope you never change.”

  Me, I’m glad my hands are cold. They chill my cheeks while I roll my eyes at him. “You’re so mean.”

  “What? Because I enjoy your you-ness? I love you exactly how you are.” His smile fades, giving way to tenderness. “God, I wish I were there with you right now. I need my arms around you. Escape with me this weekend? Just a long weekend, baby. I want to spoil you away from the Valley.”

  My heart skips like it does every time he mentions it. “Where were you thinking?”

  “Anywhere. India. Hawaii.”

  “On such short notice? And plus, those are long flights for a weekend.”

  He laughs softly. “I forget my girl isn’t used to traveling.”

  “I’m used to traveling.” Lie.

  “Would you come along if we were close to home?”

  I feel a smile trying to break through. I’m considering it, a weekend away from the Valley, from my mom and her crazy ideas, from the house and all my jobs. This coming week isn’t the hardest, actually. I could rig it. My heart palpitates like I should get checked.

  “Phew,” I say, and he shakes his head at me.

  “You’re such a thinker. Let go for a moment, Savannah.”

  “Okay. Yes. I’d go if it were closer to home.”

  “Santa Barbara it is then. I’ll have my PA make the arrangements.”

  “Ciro! No, wait a second.”

  He does, brows sinking over his eyes in suspicion. “Waiting.”

  “I’ll do it if you send me the poem.”

  “It’s not a poem, and it’s a no-can-do. Gotta get off, babe. Lunch break’s over, and it’s back to the grind. I’ll be booking us a resort next.”

  “Wait! Wait. Recite it to me again.” My voice is desperate, and it confuses both of us. “Sorry, I mean— I just really liked it, and I want to think about it. I can’t think about it if I don’t remember it.”