The Truth about Porn Star Boyfriends

by Sunniva Dee

  “Champagne!” Ana orders. “A bottle. No, two, right?” She glances around at us, wiggling a little in her chair. I try not to think about why we’re celebrating, that my... what, exactly? (Frieda might be right in me obsessing over labels) is finished drilling her. I want to ask how she manages not to look sore. I want to ask Aaron how he manages to look genuinely excited for her.

  “Let’s do one at a time,” Aaron decides but looks at Ana to make sure she agrees.

  “Yes.” She claps small hands with French-tipped fingers. “One at a time, because the fizzzzz.” She pulls the zzz out for us, so I join her until we both laugh.

  Ciro is beaming. I don’t think I’ve seen him so happy before.

  “Do you have real champagne?” he asks the waitress.

  She touches her chest as if he just asked her out. “I— Yes... Veuve Clicquot.”

  “That’ll do. Right?” He double-checks with Ana, who claps again. Geez, her clapping is so funny.

  “Yep, yep! Omigod. This film’s the one. It’s going to be awesome. Don’t you think? I’m so glad Lucid paid the money to get you in it. Now everyone’s going to watch it, and— and...”

  “You did great,” Ciro replies, reminding me of a proud father. “Your girlfriend has become an amazing performer since the last time I worked with her. It wouldn’t surprise me if you snagged an award from it, Ana.”

  “Oh god. Can you imagine?” Her voice breaks with excitement, and then she snuggles into her Aaron, who’s so, so happy for her. Wow, I can’t. Even.

  Here I am, having a hard time connecting the dots between this conversation and the fact that Ciro just had sex with her for three days straight.

  And then, here I am, a normal person, just a regular waitress and student, smiling and being on a date with him. And in between what he did with my new super-sweet friend, Ana, I’ve been in his arms—in his bed—with him in me.

  I’m the first to grab my full glass of champagne, lifting it high and then downing the whole damn thing in two gulps. I shudder. Veuve Clicquot or not, if you down it like water, it’s going to hurt.

  I don’t move out of the crook of Ciro’s arm until I’m three glasses in. By then, I’m relaxed enough to not feel absolutely weirded out.

  I laugh a lot.

  They laugh a lot.

  There’s a game starting around the third bottle of champagne and after the second course—because we’re having courses—where, whenever one of us kiss our date, the other couple kisses too.

  It’s childish. It’s ridiculous. It’s silly. The boys outdo each other, sticking their tongues down our throats like we’re all twelve. I almost choke once, which sends Ana to the floor. Or maybe it was her fifth glass of champagne that did it. The girl is tiny.

  And not once does Ana or Ciro make any move toward each other. Perhaps that is what my thwarted brain understands the least.

  “I don’t know how to describe last night.”

  I’m at home, propped up against fluffy pillows with my laptop in front of me. I was cramming for a quiz, but then Charlotte came by with her still depths and ability to listen.

  “Try. Was it a good night?”

  “It was amazing.” I huff a laugh. “I did it as a test. I wanted to see how I’d react being with his friends, even someone he’d slept with for work. I went into the date doubting myself more than I doubted him. You know? He’s just so consistent in everything he says and does. It almost seems like he really only wants me for more than the flesh-side of things… I’m not making sense, am I?”

  Charlotte’s kind eyes meet mine. “No, I get it.”

  “But to sit there, knowing that he’d been more with the woman across from me than he had with me over the last three days? It was wild. I was jealous in the beginning. But then they were so natural. Her boyfriend was at ease, excited for her and how she’d made a great ‘performance’ as Ciro called it. And we invented silly drinking games. Or kissing games.”

  “Kissing games?” She frowns like she’s thinking adult games.

  “Yeah. The couples had to up each other in the kissing department. Ha, it was funny. ‘You had to be there.’” I make quotation marks.

  “Wow. You’re not as freaked out anymore.”

  “Guess not?”

  She shrugs. “You look happy, and that’s the most important part.”

  “More important than morals?”

  “What good are morals if they don’t make people happy? You guys are unconventional is all. There are lots of unconventional couples out there.”

  I tap my screen with a nail. “Would you have taken a chance on this kind of relationship?”

  “I can’t compare myself to you. All I know is I’ve never seen you in love before, and if I were to rate your response to Ciro, I’d give it a ten on the one-to-ten crush scale.”

  “There’s a scale?”

  “Now there is.” She raises her chin so she can look down her nose at me. “And congrats, you’re topping the shit out of that thing!”

  I lift my arms over my head in victory. For good measure, I add the quiet hiss of a jubilant crowd.

  “But to be serious, Savannah. I root for Ciro and you. The way he looks at you is completely different to how he looks at anyone else.”

  “Except in his movies.”

  “I’m gonna be honest with you. I’ve Googled Drake Constantine, and I’ve seen a clip or two since you guys started hanging out.”

  “I figured. Everyone who knows about us will have Googled him by now.”

  “Yeah. And I see why he’s big. The man is scorching onscreen, but the way he looks at those girls is not how he looks at you.”

  “What do you mean?” I got that same molten stare in bed last night.

  “When I see him look at you, he’s a man in love. Someone who’d give the world to his one and only.”

  “God, Charlotte.”

  “Sorry, that came out majorly romancy.”

  Something swells in my throat. Happiness? No, I’m just overwhelmed.

  I fan the air between us to keep her attention from my blurring vision. “You’re pretty amazing.”

  “Savannah?”

  “Yeah?” I clear my throat. Squint at the phone in the darkness to see what time it is. Five a.m. “Who’s this?”

  “I’m sorry to wake you up. It’s Paul Gallagher, your mother’s neighbor in Topanga? Adele is okay, but she doesn’t want to sleep, and I think she needs to. You know how it is when a person doesn’t get enough sleep. They become a bit...”

  “A bit what?”

  “Delusional. She’s at my house now. Wasn’t sure if you wanted to come visit.”

  I get out of bed, throw some clothes on, and head to the car with my pounding heart.

  The drive to Topanga is hairpin curves and bumpy heights. I take them faster than I should and park outside Mom’s house in twenty minutes. I see them right away in Paul’s front yard, between robot-like sculptures and medicinal herbs. She’s on her knees, hands on her thighs, and looking-not-looking at me.

  “Mom?” I run toward them. Sink down in front of her and hold her face. “Mom! What’re you doing?” Her eyes are watery with distant spheres and visions I can’t share with her. “When did you sleep last?”

  It takes her a moment to focus.

  “I found her in my backyard, digging up arugula with her hands. Poisonous, she said.” He mouths the last sentence.

  Mom tenses and stands on wobbly legs. “Careful, Savannah. Stay away from the robots.” A cold hand squeezes my arm. “And keep it down. They can hear you.”

  Shit. Shit-shit-shit. What am I supposed to do with this?

  Paul and I get her inside her house. The whole way, she side-eyes the robots over her shoulder as if she expects them to follow.

  “What were you doing out there?” I ask.<
br />
  “Paul doesn’t believe me.” It’s like I can see her heart thumping against her chest. “All the herbs in his yard? Please, Savannah. You need to tell him. I don’t want him to die!”

  “It’s okay, Adele,” he begins, but she cuts him off.

  “No, it’s not okay. How can it be okay when you’re going to die? You eat their herbs. Everything they grow is meant to kill people. They’re using your yard as their first step, and you’re their guinea pig. I know. Oh I know it.” She nods quickly, imploring us both with her stare. “They told me. They wanted me to eat oregano”—she mocks the spice in prolonged vowels—“but no, those bastards couldn’t fool me, so they got mad and confessed to the whole plan.”

  “Mom, I think we need to go to the hospital.”

  “Hospital? Why?” I’ve added to her confusion.

  “Just to have them check your vitals and stuff, make sure you’re all right.”

  “No, no need. I didn’t eat any of it, I told you. It’s Paul I’m worried about.” She wiggles her arm free of my grip. “God knows how long they’ve been feeding him poison. See how grey-haired he’s become?”

  I don’t have to look at Paul. The man is sixty, and his hair is grey.

  My phone buzzes in my back pocket. I pick it up to Ciro’s groggy voice. “Did you just call me?”

  “Me? No, I must have butt-dialed you.”

  He quiets. Then, “Is everything okay?”

  I wasn’t crying. Not until now. “A minute?” I lift a finger to Paul, who takes my position by Mom. He starts talking about chamomile tea.

  I walk through the house and out on the balcony. The woodsy morning aroma can’t stop the tears from spilling out. “It’s my mom.”

  “Is she okay?”

  “No, not exactly.” And then I can’t stop crying. My voice blubbers and stutters. I try to explain, but all I get out are single words about confused and scared and not sleeping. Paul thinking the lack of sleep makes her confused. How I’m with her now.

  “I’ll be there in ten.”

  “No it’s okay,” I say on autopilot, because aren’t you supposed to manage?

  “Shh, I want to be there with you. Ten, baby girl.”

  By the time Ciro arrives, my mother stands in the living room with a mug of chamomile tea in cupped hands. It’s not from Paul’s garden. She’s staring out the window, hiccoughing as Paul dismantles sculptures and carries them to the short end of his house where Mom can’t see them.

  “Hi, baby.” Ciro kisses my head before he walks over to my mother. “Good morning, Ms. Nichols. How are you?”

  “Ciro, you’re here too? Why’s everyone here?” She blinks, but a small smile appears on her mouth. Not even lack of sleep can alter her weakness for handsome males.

  “Eh, couldn’t sleep, so I figured I’d join Savannah for a cup of your delicious tea... if you have any more of that?” He juts his chin toward her cup.

  “Oh but it’s just chamomile. Supposed to make you sleepy.” She rolls her eyes in a weak version of herself.

  “Chamomile? I was going to sleep in this morning, but I have this terrible habit of waking up and making plans instead. Then, I can’t fall asleep again because my mind goes a mile per minute. So chamomile isn’t that effective?”

  I bob out a We’re good to Paul’s questioning stare from the backyard. He lifts in a wave.

  “Ha, no, chamomile is a joke.” The smugness of knowing shit enters her eyes. “Valerian root or St. John’s wort, on the other hand, that’s the real deal.” She makes a hesitant step toward the kitchen, but then she stiffens and shoots a look out the window.

  “He’s locked them up in his basement,” I say about Paul and his robots. Feral-wary, she peaks her head in the kitchen door and eyes the window. I walk in past her. The three robot sculptures in Paul’s front yard are gone too.

  “He needs to get rid of all the herbs and the dirt they’re in and replant everything.” She nods firmly, hands knitting.

  “Mom, please don’t—”

  “Does he have any Valerian or St. John’s out there?” Ciro interrupts innocently. “I’d take some of that, for sure, for another few hours of sweet dreams. I’m off today. What a waste, right, to wake up at five?”

  “No! No, no—you wouldn’t want his herbs. They’ve been poisoned.” Mom sucks in a nervous breath.

  “Mom...” I begin again.

  “Shoot. Yeah, I’m not into poison.” Ciro smiles, leaning against a countertop with his arms crossed. “No rest for the wicked, I guess.”

  “I have some myself, though,” Mom says, the smug glint in her eye traveling to her pitch.

  “You do?” Ciro’s arm goes around my waist, and I lean into his warmth as Mom starts to walk between the cabinets and the tea-maker.

  “Valerian root. St. John’s wort,” she mumbles, reminding her brain of its task. “Valerian root. St. John’s wort.”

  Her head jerks to us a little too fast, but then she’s back to her silver boxes of loose tea. “I’ll make it strong for you. Won’t be tasty, but it’ll work. You’ll definitely get some rest.”

  Ten minutes later, we’re seated around the kitchen table like my mother hadn’t just been on her knees in Paul Gallagher’s front yard. We’re conversing, mostly about robots from space but also about sleep. She worked on a job application for a little too long last night, she admits. And the night before. And when we ask directly, it turns out that she worked on it nonstop for four days. I wish I’d have visited.

  “Whoa, sounds like we’ll have a slumber party in a minute,” Ciro chuckles out. “Let me return the favor.” He pours some of Mom’s sleep concoction into a tea strainer and holds up one of her good mugs in question. “This mug good for you? It’s got a heart on it.”

  Mom giggles. “Yeah, looks good to me. Slumber party, huh?”

  “Good idea,” I say. “I got up too early too.” Thanks to you. “I’m up for it.”

  Ciro adds honey and a dash of heavy cream to the tea. Mom takes a sip, but only after Ciro clinks her cup playfully with his own and I join in. “Cheers. To an awesome slumber party.”

  Mom’s eyes darken. “The door to the basement. What if he forgot to lock it?”

  “What? You mean Paul?”

  “Hold on.” Ciro picks up my phone. He faux-dials. Paul faux-picks up. “Mr. Gallagher? Hey.

  “Right, yes, all’s good over here.

  “No, no. We just wanted to check if you had locked the doors so the robots can’t get out?

  “Oh double bolts?

  “Three locks?” He lifts a happy thumb at us, and I lift mine back.

  He faux-hangs up. “Yep, he’s all set. There will be no robots on the loose.”

  “What’s he going to do with them?” Mom asks, brows sinking again. “They need to be neutralized.”

  Okay, this is too much. I open my mouth. In one single sentence, I’ll ruin all the work Ciro has done so far. The man is fast though.

  “Yeah, the FBI, it sounded like?” he replies before me. “Anyway, cheers to a twenty-four-hour hibernation. I’ll just lock our doors to be on the safe side, and bam, lights out.”

  She did it like a good girl. Mom drank her sweet concoction, and Ciro refilled it whenever he could without being noticed. Despite the situation, it made me want to laugh; to watch your friend-with-benefits get your mother drunk on tea is pretty interesting.

  She hadn’t eaten in a while either, so I made us breakfast, scrambled eggs on Ezekiel bread. I counted, and she was on her fourth cup of herbal sleeping aid by the time she’d downed her food and her eyelids started drooping.

  “Don’t go outside. You never know,” she whispered. “They’re strong and could break through the locks.”

  “Don’t worry, Ms. Nichols. I’ll be on the lookout.”

  Now we’re here, seated in the
living room and watching the morning sun fill the room with gold. Ciro has never been more beautiful, and I have never been more thankful.

  “You’re amazing,” I whisper. He steadies my face between his thumbs and the pads of his palms and kisses me softly. Light snores come from my mom’s bedroom. “I’m sorry I dug into your day. I know you have shit to do.”

  “Naw, it’s a late day for me. Most of today’s scene is shot starring other people. I don’t go in until four. Did you have any tea?”

  I shake my head, smiling against his mouth. “Probably, like, four sips. I’m still sleepy though. It was an early morning.”

  “Yeah, I’m ready for our slumber party.”

  I settle into the curve of his body, and he slides down on the couch with me. When Ciro nuzzles my neck with his nose, the dread of having a mother who lost her shit decreases with the length of his exhales.

  He did it.

  No one but him picks up his phone on my first ring at ungodly hours. No one runs to my rescue like he does. No one insists on us being it, the big thing that matters, the way Ciro does. I’m ready to accept it all, deal with my jealousy and stay the hell away from social media so I can be his one-and-only after hours.

  We’ve danced around each other for four months, and he has finally convinced me. Steady and stubborn has finally outweighed the wrong with him, and here I am on my way to surprise him.

  He’s still at work. It’s Wednesday, early afternoon. He hasn’t changed the code to the bunker, so I’m going to sneak in, prepare sushi from scratch, and chill a bottle of champagne.

  I can’t wait to see his face when I tell him!

  I went to my favorite store and bought a short dress in Ciro’s favorite color, the deep red of passion, energy, love, and everything good. The mannequin wore matching red heels in a shiny material, and the sales girl pointed me across the lane to a boutique-y shoe store where they had them in my size. I already imagine his face brightening with an intoxicating blend of heat and bliss.

  Oh I’ll make my man happy tonight.

  I shouldn’t be dressed like this already, but I was feeling too good. I wanted to bask in it first, and then I’ll change so I can cook before I spruce myself back up again.