The Truth about Porn Star Boyfriends

by Sunniva Dee

  Lenny hooks my arm with his and helps me down the steps from the shuttle like I’m a convalescent. His eyes smile in beautiful dark slits as if this isn’t the day that broke, and then he helps me up the wooden steps to the porch too.

  “I can still walk,” I say.

  “Just making sure.”

  Luka enters the Queen first. I just can’t take him today. Honestly, he’s who should have been left behind at that cemetery, the one with the disgusting life, an immoral son-of-a-bitch who preys on people’s lust for his own winning. That wasn’t Julian.

  Inside, Lenny doesn’t let go of me until I’m seated next to Mama. Small and skinny, she looks babushka-old with her black dress and headband trailing in a cone down her back. Her doll-sized, dark body supposedly carried her sons to term. I find that hard to believe; with their oversized frames and pale features, they could be changelings.

  “My Yulian,” she murmurs, face like stone and eyes alive with grief.

  “Yes, Mama,” I say, because what more? Her husband passed away five years ago, and her good son died. Now, she only has the douche-bag son left.

  Luka folds her in, a golden Russian bear, and she disappears against his body.

  The twins were born in America. Their parents were not. Raised on bread lines in the Soviet Union, Mama and her dancer husband were well acquainted with starvation until they were granted exile in America.

  It’s not cultural bias to conclude that the ready availability of food allowed Mama’s sons to stretch into the top three percentile of males in America. It’s a biological fact.

  My parents savor the traditional Russian dinner prepared by Julian’s tetkas, aunts by blood and extended family. My baby sis flutters her lashes over violet irises in an effort to catch James’s attention. The Fratters are all between twenty-five and twenty-eight, and Aci is seventeen. James knows this and keeps his eyes on me, on Luka, and on Mama.

  The Russian pancakes are too delicious for a day like this. We eat though, all of us. Luka folds two blinis in one hand and takes savage bites. I look away. The tetkas pour vodka in thick glasses, and we drink. I like this funeral ritual. It makes a lot of sense when it’s hard to remain rational.

  It’s late.

  Since Julian and I were the only resident couple, we have the second-story corner suite with a built-in bathroom. Our room hosts a small glass veranda too though that’s not unique in the Queen.

  I’m so drunk. I don’t want to think, but even when you’re sloshed, your mind hops around. I remember fragments of conversation. I remember him sliding up my body on this bed, alive, warm, playful, the last time only five days ago. Geez, how things change. How do they change so fast?

  Drunkenly, I stumble over sneakers, clothes, and large men’s shoes that form a disorderly path toward the closet. I need to tidy up in here. I shouldn’t be falling asleep shit-faced anyway, so now’s as good a time as ever.

  There’s too much stuff everywhere, which makes it hard to remain upright. Then the door flies open in the exact moment I crash to the floor.

  “Geneva.” Luka’s voice is hushed. “Are you okay?”

  “Of course. Yeah.” I gather blue jeans and dress pants into an even taller mountain and start kicking it toward the glass veranda. It means I have to stand on one foot. Not good. I almost topple over again.

  “What are you doing?”

  “What does it look like, tidying up, how’z your mom,” I say all in one.

  Luka quiets, so I sniffle and glare for him to answer. I’m used to oddly yellow eyes raking over each detail, cataloguing. I’m happy they still exist on someone even if that someone screws girls on camera and pays for his med. studies with the meat money.

  I’m being culturally inhibited on this one, but I’m not ashamed. Julian knew how I felt about his brother, that I’ll never agree to the way Luka whores himself out. Yes, I know their parents could never have paid for their education. It’s not even a point for me that he might save lives as a doctor in the future, because—take up student loans, dude, like Julian did. Having a big dick doesn’t mean you have to be in the adult industry.

  Come to think of it, I’m the opposite of inhibited by not accepting whoring in men. Typically, women are the ones called sluts, while men are just Casanovas and Don Juans. How much cooler does that sound, right? And when they’re doing it for money, it’s just them being gigolos. Certainly doesn’t sound as bad as being a whore.

  It’s hard to be objective about this. I’ve watched Luka swagger off with porn bimbos one time too many, laughing, arms around their shoulders and a lip-smack on their cheeks. Remember, this man is months away from going into residency at a hospital, and he does it without a penny in student loans.

  “Yes, Ma’am, breathe deeply. Let me listen to your heart.” I can picture him. Unless his patients have watched his films, they’ll never know what he did for six years straight.

  I rehash this before he sinks down next to me and starts gathering his brother’s clothes. “Mama’s okay. She went home with my aunt. I didn’t want her to be alone tonight, but she didn’t want to stay at the Queen either. So yeah.”

  “I can do it,” I say, half-pulling the clothes out of his hands.

  He doesn’t let go. Instead his eyes blaze at me, grief and stubbornness mingling. “He’s my brother.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  He tugs on the fabric. “That I’m here too, that I can help, and that I’m going through what you’re going through.”

  “Ha, I don’t think so. You weren’t about to marry him,” I say, and then I burst into tears though I’ve made it this far and Luka is the last person I want to cry in front of. I shouldn’t be in this room. Julian’s smell is here, everything around me is ours. I should have gone to the hotel with my family.

  “Please. Just leave me alone, Luka.”

  “No.” His eyes are full too. “You don’t like me, but can we see past that now? I want to be here. I know Julian would have wanted me here.”

  “Bullshit. He’d want what I want, which is for you to leave.” My breathing rasps. “Leave. Please.”

  He stands, arms hanging along his sides as he watches me. A tear gleams at the corner of his eye, and I do see what Luka wants, someone like him, someone who loved his brother as much as he did.

  Luka’s dress shirt is barely tucked into his tuxedo pants, and he hasn’t even skipped off his shoes yet. He needs someone to bond with, and for one painful moment, I feel desolate for not wanting the same thing. He treads backward. As he shakes his head, his retreat becomes surer, and the pain in my chest turns to guilt. I follow him to the door so I can lock once I close it behind him.

  Julian blew it. I don’t accept what he did, and as much as I loved him, I won’t let what happened ruin my life too.

  For a second, his eyes trail over my hand as it curls around the door knob. Then they lift, the liquid yellow of his irises deepening like he’s about to tell me a truth, like I should pay attention to him.

  “You can’t do this alone, Geneva.”

  COMING SOON

  Sunniva was born and raised in the Land of the Midnight Sun but spent her early twenties bouncing between Spain, Italy, and Greece. Later, she fell in love with Buenos Aires, Argentina. Fast forward, and the United States had her interest. After half a decade in California, she’s now settled in the beautiful city of Savannah, Georgia.

  Sunniva’s favorite genres are YA, New Adult, and Contemporary Fiction. She’s also been known to dabble in Paranormal.

  Sunniva is the happiest when her characters run off and do their own thing, effectively destroying her puppeteer’s plan for their plots and endings. Like in real life, Sunniva’s goal is to keep her readers on their toes until the last page of each story.

  Copyright © 2017 by Sunniva Dee

  Cover design by Ampersand Book Covers
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  Interior design by John Gibson

  1st edition August 15th, 2017

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission from the above author of this book. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the various products referenced in this work of fiction. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.