The Truth about Porn Star Boyfriends

by Sunniva Dee

“No, I’m not.” Ciro smiles. So do I. “I just won’t be a visual performer anymore. ‘No more skin’ as my baby girl says.” He caresses me with another gaze.

  “I’ll be your go-to voice-over-actor only.”

  My boyfriend and I disagree on a lot of things. For instance, I think baths are fine, while he thinks they’re potentially dangerous. I think I could have half a glass of regular rosé. He goes out of his way to get me non-alcoholic Carl Jung.

  I also feel it happened too fast. He reminds me that’s just who I am, that no matter how long it took, I would have felt it was too fast. He has this tender, tender smile on his face when he says that, and it gives another reason for my chest to hop with hibiscus-and-lily lightness. It’s not necessary, but he still tells me that we are blessed. Of course we are. It’s “just” change.

  At least he doesn’t propose. That would have sent me over the edge. The soft flaps in my stomach are hard enough for me to digest.

  “The sun dove into the black ocean faster than he predicted. What was this planet? Wasn’t it Mars, where everyone went? Eric Markweisser looked at his watch. It showed Earth-time and wouldn’t change until the amalgam of his uniform coagulated, merging with the sixteenth element of their air. Oh Eric had listened. He might not have if it weren’t for Captain Kaitlyn Williams’ insistence.”

  Ciro quiets in there, and the red light above the door turns off as he switches off his microphone. I creak it open. “Ready for a break from Mars?”

  His eyes float to me, and he stands, stretching. “Oh but it’s Curdacula, mind you. Commander Eric Markweisser just doesn’t know it yet. Why else would the sun dive so quickly into the water?”

  I lift my hands as if he’s got me there, and he winks before his gaze strays down my body to my stomach. She ticks.

  “She did it again,” I say and stroke the slight bulge.

  “Really?” He hugs me carefully. Then he kisses me and pets her from the outside. “I think she knows whenever I think of her.”

  “She already has a sixth sense.”

  “She’s a genius.”

  It’s been six months since Drake-On-Demand got its first set of contracts. Since then, we’ve branched out, and what I just overheard was a sci-fi audio book for one of the smaller publishing houses. It’s Ciro’s second this month, and though it’s not where he earns the big money, we both enjoy them.

  We walk hand in hand to the kitchen for a cold lunch, and as usual, he reads my anxiety.

  “We’ll be fine, baby girl.” He strokes stray hair away from my face.

  “But I just started full-time at the college,” I say today like I did yesterday.

  “How long is the degree?” He’s patient, ready to recycle our whole conversation from last night.

  “Three years.”

  “And how long do you have left?”

  “Little over two years.”

  “What do you think gives you more flexibility with our baby? Being done with school and in an entry position at a marketing job, or being a student?”

  “Student. But I can’t rely upon you for everything.”

  He sits down on a barstool, pulls me in between his thighs, and runs his nose up until he reaches my earlobe. Briefly, he sucks it into his mouth. It gives me chills.

  “I think you should rely on me. It’s the only thing that makes sense right now. You love me?”

  “Like crazy.”

  “Good. And do you plan to spend your life with me?”

  “Is this a trick question?” I pucker my lips and look up.

  “Don’t be coy with me or I’ll end up cautiously flinging you over my shoulder and carefully dropping you on the bed—which I shouldn’t because I only have my lunch break. I need to get back to making a living for my family.”

  I tip my head back in the crook of his arm and savor the soft strokes of his tongue.

  Ciro has worked steadily since he transitioned into his new role as a voice actor. For each project he aces, Sharon secures him a higher salary for the next one. It helps, according to the two of them, that he’s put in time in front of the camera. He knows the business and can separate reality from myth in porn, and it’s why his sound is so right-on.

  When deadlines loom, I’ve got a night-worker boyfriend on my hands. It’s not uncommon to wake up at four in the morning to the sound of him faking an orgasm in his studio. Since my hormones are in an uproar these days, I’ll plod down the hallway and sneak in.

  “Did I wake you up?” he asks then, eyes bright for me. They’ll run over my warm cheeks and my shiny gaze, and he’ll wait for me to act on my lust.

  “You did,” I say and slide to my knees in front of him. He groans happily and watches me free him from his boxers. There have been times when he’s forgotten to turn off the microphone.

  “I should use us instead. We sound like the real deal.”

  “Strange, isn’t it? Just bleep out all the Oh Savannahs and Ciro, my gods.”

  “I do enjoy it when you call me god.”

  Now, I take the plastic off our cold lunch platters and place them on the counter.

  “Mom and Paul are stopping by. She’s off to work but wanted to show us pictures of the newborn cheetahs first. She took a whole slew with her new camera.”

  “Oh good. You think they want lunch?” He leans back in the chair and sends a look toward the window.

  “No, you know Mom on late days. She slept in and just ate breakfast.”

  He lets out the same relieved breath I do when I think of Mom. “She’s settled in nicely at the wild life center, hasn’t she?”

  I grin. “Yeah. She’s loving it.” My mother has been there for four months now, ever since her meds stabilized and she could keep a good routine. “Did she tell you they’ve upgraded her from volunteer to a part-time paid position?”

  “They did?” He arches a brow the way I remember from back when I couldn’t look at him without blushing.

  I tilt my head, mock-suspicious. “She’s with the cheetah habitat. I thought for sure you had a finger in that.”

  “Not at all. I haven’t spoken with them since the first enquiry.”

  I fake an evil laugh. “Of course they couldn’t turn down the future mother-in-law of their main sponsor.”

  “Future mother-in-law?”

  Oh crap.

  “What’s this, Savannah? Can you picture it now?”

  “No...”

  “Let’s dig into this some more, shall we?”

  “Please don’t.”

  The front door opens. My mother calls out a greeting. Princess single-barks and scrambles to the doggie-gate while I try to get out of Ciro’s arms.

  “Hey, guys!” I shout too loudly. Paul’s low greeting rumbles down there too, but visitors be damned, my boyfriend isn’t letting go of me.

  “Baby girl?”

  “Yeah...”

  “Can you see yourself without me in the future?”

  “No, but...”

  “Do you like parties?”

  “What?”

  “You know, big parties. With all of our friends. Suits. White gowns.”

  My heart flutters, and I actually don’t mean it when I say, “Stop it.”

  He produces the yellow ring from the pocket of his pants, and he’s holding it up between us as Paul and my mother let themselves past the doggie gate.

  Mom gasps. Really, she gasps and steeples her hands in front of her face in a replica of Lin’s signature move.

  “Oh my goodness, Paul, are you seeing what I’m seeing?” She gasps again. “Never mind us, kids. Ciro, you were saying?”

  I think he shoots her a wink, but my heart is too busy hammering and my stomach is too busy ticking. I don’t know what I want.

  “Savannah? Baby girl. Be my hibiscus.” He lifts me to the barstool
and sinks on one knee below me. Then he extends the ring. “Make me the happiest man in the world. Please, be my wife.”

  I spent half a decade pursuing inertia and called it cherishing the moment. I coddled my Status Quo. Whenever self-insight threatened, I blamed Mom’s condition and deemed stillness our only solution.

  From day one, Ciro Anthony Silveira challenged my world. The pain he caused and the bliss he gives— If he hadn’t walked into Mintrer’s a year ago, my lonely battle of the frozen would have continued.

  But here I am, getting a college degree. I’m in a relationship with a man I want to wake up to every morning, while my mother receives the best care available even as she lives her dream right here in the Valley.

  It would be a stretch to say I have no fear of the future, but I’m aware of my issues now. At each turn, he helps, always testing my courage. He’s the reason a new life now thrives in my womb, oh yes, this little one, she was planned.

  To hell with overthinking. To hell with nerves. To hell with all the what-ifs still left in my head. Despite my bliss-tinted fear, I whisper to him words I don’t want to take back. I can do this, this also, because with my love it makes sense to be brave.

  First of all, thank you to my family for always being there no matter the craziness of life. Even when I spend too much time inside my head, with my characters and wild storylines.

  As always, I owe my author friends and critique partners a huge thank you for their always-readiness. Lynn Vroman, Cheryl McIntyre, Alyson Santos, and D. Nichole King: you are my rocks. My stories could never look the way they do without you.

  I have a small group of incredible fans named after my angelic first novel. These readers inspire me and listen to my gushings and rantings. They rave when appropriate, they complain, and they emoticon-dance. Sunniva’s Angels, thank you for your absolutely celestial support!

  As always, I'm so fortunate to have my awesome beta readers Renee McMillan and April Martin with me on my journey. I love the discussions this novel has spurred, the laughter, and the whoa!! moments. Thank you for being exactly who you are. You rock.

  Lastly, but so not least, thank you to you, beautiful readers, who pick up my books and devour them. I adore you. Read on for a snippet of the next Porn Star Boyfriend novel, Twin Savage.

  I let my gaze sink down my wedding gown until it meets his coffin. Julian Verenich wasn’t perfect, but he was as good as it gets. I loved him. Definitely would have gone through with the wedding.

  I miss my notebook.

  Setting: small Greek-orthodox church—St. Tatiana—in the Valley. It’s packed with grieving or curious guests, most in black but some in white, “to celebrate his life.” People are here to ritualize and memorialize. I am too. Which is why I wish I had my notebook. The reactions around me are astounding.

  My best friend, Joy, narrows her eyes at me from the first bench. I know why. You’re blocking your feelings, Geneva. Snap out of your scientist mode. She’s in her last year of psychology and lives and breathes the stuff, always a fixer of people.

  Julian and I are observers. Or, he was one. First-year PhD students in cognitive and evolutionary anthropology, we care about how people react and why. I wish he stood next to me and looked out over this church, such a classic example of ritualization in the name of mourning. Only, I’ve introduced a new aspect with my wedding gown and his groom’s tuxedo. It’s flexible ritualization at its finest, and I’m shocking the shit out of the crowd.

  Joy frowns deeper, and I almost smile.

  These are the mourners’ reactions: one, they notice my gown, my bouquet, my bridal crown, and their eyes widen. In some, this is followed by glossy eyes and/or a dropped jaw. Two, they cover their mouths in shock/horror/surprise when they see that Julian is dressed in his wedding tuxedo. Three, they gasp out loud, and the backward whisper commences, from the front of the line by the coffin to the ones who haven’t yet seen him. Four, murmurs erupt at the sight of Julian’s best friends/roommates/groomsmen in the archway to our left. People’s reaction is culturally groomed. Julian would have loved it.

  Tall and broad-shouldered, the men are as similar as they’re different. With dyed-blue roses in their lapels, they match Julian and me, and every one of them flicks their gazes over me gaging my emotional status. I’m all right. Patiently, they wait, now bodyguards, soon coffin bearers.

  These seven men are my friends too. For the last six years they’ve shared the once-condemned frat house on Magnolia Avenue with us. I’m the only live-in girlfriend who has lasted for more than a year.

  James. Shorthaired and straight-laced, he’s our polite, handsome law student. Marlon. Another law student, dark-skinned with burning eyes and dreadlocks he’ll cut once he takes the bar exam. Lenny, or La On, which we’re banned from calling him. Black, male-model-styled hair, eyes that turn upward at the edges. He curls his lips now in a sad smile.

  I nod back because my face can’t move.

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” someone mumbles, shifting from Julian’s mother to me. I accept their hand. “Beautiful dress,” she says. “Really, I’m so sorry.” And then she cries whoever she is and glides on to Luka. It’s when she pulls in a deep gasp and I want to roll my eyes.

  I wish people did their research before they came to funerals. Julian was an identical twin—he’s not actually standing next to me. Luka mirrors his brother in a tuxedo, and that I’m pissed about. This was my show, not his. He should have worn what his friends are wearing, regular sharp groomsmen attire. I refuse to look at him. I’m disgusted by the way he hugs the girl. It’s too tight, his side-job considered. I let my gaze go to the remaining grooms-/coffin men instead.

  “Sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you.”

  Nathaniel with his big blue eyes, pale skin, and cherry-colored lips. He’s innocence and pureness despite being the oldest of the Fratters. Diego, deep green irises against olive skin. He eclipses them with long lashes as he studies me, another psychologist in the making.

  “Sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you.”

  From behind Diego, Connor peers out, gaze lustrous. Ruggedly handsome, he’s trimmed his beard for the ceremony, and his hair is gathered in a bun. I shake my head to him. If anyone can make me cave in and cry, it’s this poet boy. He even makes Luka swallow hard.

  We do everything together today, and I hate that Luka’s right about this. Golden hair brushing the top of his collar, he swaggers slowly off the cemetery and pulls their mother under his arm. I’m right behind, just not on his side, the rest of the Fratters silently following. Joy is with me, thank god.

  The shuttle was supposed to get us back and forth between the church and the wedding dinner. The arrangement still works, from church to funeral dinner.

  “You know what I think?” Connor murmurs. I don’t want to hear, Poet Boy. He leans in so his lips touch my hair. “I think that Julian had it all figured out.”

  I turn to stare as the bus hobbles to a stop at a traffic light. We’re almost at the bottom of Hillside, the porn star mansions part of the Valley.

  “What, how to O.D. on over-the-counter pills?”

  “There’s no way he planned it. It was the stress over the wedding and your research trip. There was a lot going on at once, and he was trying to get some rest.”

  “Yeah, well.” I can’t think about it without getting mad. This too is a natural reaction. Joy would claim it’s psychological, but it’s culturally founded. I’m supposed to be mad at him. Unfortunately, analyzing it doesn’t stop my thoughts.

  Julian and I were lovers and colleagues. We were a team, and we bought the tickets to Kenya a week ago. After Kenya, we were going to the Amazons. I don’t even know what to do now. I can’t go alone into those tribal areas.

  “We finished each other’s thoughts,” I say.

  “Yeah. I’m not a godly person, but I’m
damn sure of this: the good ones die young, and they do it for a reason. Julian was the best of all of us, always chill with you and the crazy research you guys do. Didn’t he look at the bright side of things? He didn’t judge people either. I don’t recall him saying anything bad about anyone.”

  “He’d just study them.” I shake my head, unable to hold back a smirk. “Then he’d go, ‘Got your notebook?’ and I’d have to jot down his observations because he was too lazy to do it himself.”

  “Okay so he wasn’t perfect.” Connor huffs a laugh.

  “Which according to your theory means he needed another few decades to polish himself if that’s the goal with hanging down here on Earth,” I say, and then there’s a sob in me after all. Connor pulls me into the crook of his arm and sighs when my face buries into his shirt.

  “You’ll be okay.”

  “I know. I didn’t love him that much,” I convince us. Try, anyway.

  “Yeah. It was the allure of rituals that made you two plan that wedding.”

  I snivel-laugh; part truth, part cruel joke. We’re over. Now what do I do?

  Luka parks in the driveway of our Queen Anne Victorian at the foot of Hillside. We’re in a narrow neighborhood between a Vons and a Ralphs, twenty minutes from Orange Community College. None of us go to it anymore. We met there, starting our studies cheaply, but then we moved on to full bachelor’s degrees, later master’s degrees, med school, and law school. We all have our reasons for getting terminal degrees and staying in L.A.

  The Queen is our home. Six years within her teal green wood does that to you. Me, I met Julian and moved in only months after they’d fixed her up. I can’t imagine moving out. I can’t imagine staying either.

  Friends or not, I used to live here with eight men. One of them was my boyfriend, my fiancé, my to-be-husband. Now, there are seven left, none of which is he. None have steady girls either. It would have been easier if they did.

  Okay, now I’m being culturally patterned. What would Julian have said if he’d heard me? He’d have nudged my chin up and said, “You and your bourgeoisie predictability.”