by Roxy Harte
I’ll probably go to hell for saying this, but I love being a porn star.
And as much as I hate Simon Kramer tonight for trying to destroy my life by taking away my career, I am still thankful for him…because I owe who I am to him.
The girls are waiting by the time I finally arrive at O’Leary’s Irish Pub, centered in Seattle’s art district. It’s after nine and I’m more than an hour late, but I couldn’t very well go to the bar dressed the way I was when I left Simon’s, or still sobbing my eyes out. So I went home and cried some more before I was finally able to shower and change into jeans, a tank, and an oversized sweatshirt. I’m dressed to blend in, because I rarely do, and on Friday nights, I just enjoy being one of the girls. It’s also why I left the yellow Lotus at home, bright, sleek, and fast doesn’t blend, but my staid, dark blue Subaru Wagon does.
Usually I find them sitting at one of the secluded booths tucked into a cozy nook, but tonight they are at a high table close to the dark wood bar and surrounded by the masses. Always busy on a Friday night, the bar tonight seems especially crazed, due in part to the booking of the popular Irish rock band playing onstage. The loud music hits me in a wave, the drums seeming to jump in my chest. I fight not to hyperventilate, which has nothing to do with the noise and everything to do with still being emotional. To hide my puffy eyes, I plan to sit in the shadows, which shouldn’t be hard because O’Leary’s is dark, soft lighting dimmed further as it is absorbed by the wall’s dark paneling, even the ceiling and floors are stained wood. It feels like we really could be standing in a quaint, out-of-the-way pub somewhere in Ireland, except for the stage and the blinding spotlights that swirl over it. But the girls are on the far side of the club, far away from the stage, and that suits me fine.
I stop by the bar long enough to grab a double of Jameson and down it before the girls see me. When I look at the girls, they draw me over like a flaming beacon of hope.
They are strong.
Stronger than I ever will be, but I keep hoping their strength will rub off.
We’ve met here every Friday night for six years, ever since I pulled up a chair and introduced myself. I was tired of men and even more tired of Friday nights home alone. I’d gone to the bar to get some air and found myself watching the three of them, except that night there were five women at the table, the other two, as I would learn later, were not regulars, but merely the love interests of the moment. I was intrigued by them because, although they each seemed very masculine, they also seemed like the most beautiful women I’d seen in a very long time. They stood out from the crowd, obviously lesbians, but strikingly beautiful, even though only one of them wore makeup. I thought at the time it was the absence of makeup, the strength of their self-confidence that made them outshine every other woman in the room. But it was their ease in each other’s company that was the true attraction that lured me to their table to introduce myself.
In the industry, the competition is so fierce that there has never been room for friendship, and I desperately missed talking with other women.
Geri, Tina, and Meg welcomed me into their group, even though I was upfront about not being a lesbian and totally honest about my career. I’ve never really asked them why they accepted my offer of friendship, I’m just thankful they did.
Geri Martin is the toughest of the three, very opinionated, loud and usually in the highest spirits. She’s a hard worker and, from what I know about her, very successful as the owner of an eco-friendly travel agency, Gaia Eco-tours. She puts her soul into her job and much of her week is spent in quality control—hiking, camping, kayaking, rock-climbing and literally anything else that her firm offers. She is tall, lean, and athletic, keeping her blonde hair very short, guy short, almost military short, except for the very front, which is longer and always looks windblown. I usually try to stay out of her way because she tends to give me the hardest time about what I do. She always lets me know how much my job repulses her.
Tina Nightingale is the smallest and quietest of the group, but also the one I most identify with.
She keeps her dark brown, almost black hair pulled into a severe ponytail and has a reserved quality that makes her seem fairly unapproachable; however, I feel like I understand her because I was once so much like her. But that may only be because she teaches at the middle school a few blocks away and absolutely nothing to do with our being anything alike.
Meg Stoker is unique, with bright red hair and a flair for the dramatic. She wears funky hats and sports purple eyeglasses. She stands out and I think it is because she has an innate need to be noticed. Short, round, and always smiling, her enthusiasm for life is utterly contagious. She is the local artist responsible for several sculptures around town—bare breasts seem to be a recurring theme—and is better known as the eccentric who starts petitions for anything and everything on a whim. Some good, like when she saved an endangered coastal area from developers or when she demanded a better selection of independent and foreign films at the local theater, some strange, like the one she currently has going around town asking that the historic downtown thoroughfare be closed to motor vehicles. Her dream is to make the three-block length completely pedestrian and bicycle-friendly. I guess it has worked in other places. I try to stay uninvolved—okay, I signed the damn thing, but only because she is so damn cute when she’s trying for persuasive.
I love them all like sisters…
The music is so loud, we scream greetings over it. I see a bottle of Jameson already holds down the center of the table.
“Here’s to strong women and stronger whiskey!” Geri is making a toast as I join the table and another shot of whiskey is poured for me. We drink, we laugh, and more shots are poured.
Meg kisses my cheek as I sit down. “You work too late, beautiful.” She is wearing new glasses, bright red, and a new hairstyle, which is shorter, softer and looks more windblown than her normal shoulder-length bob. The combination makes her look a decade younger.
“You look amazing!” I kiss her cheek back. “I wish I could say I was working. That would have definitely been preferable.”
Her eyebrow goes up at my cryptic answer and I can’t bear to go into details, so instead I assure her, “No worries, everything’s fine, just another Simon moment.” The group as a whole rolls their eyes, all well-versed in Simon drama.
Tina elbows me and nods toward the bar. My entrance has caused a surge in rubbernecking. Geri’s reaction is typical as she gripes, “You’d think they’d never seen a woman before.”
“I don’t get it.” I defend myself, pointing at my hair, pulled into a tight ponytail.
Sure, I have in my earrings, three studs and two hoops per ear, and my silver bracelets, dozens on each arm, though they are currently hidden by my jacket, as is my belly button ring. I’m wearing no makeup because the girls still think I encourage the attention—even after all these years—and maybe sometimes I do, just because I like to remember what it feels like to flirt. Just to convince myself that I still have it. Even though I wouldn’t date any of them. Not because they’re men, I like men, I’ve even been known to lust after a few, I just don’t date. Relationships terrify me and I don’t need a shrink to tell me that Simon did a royal number on my head. He did. I’m fully aware of the fact. I’m also aware of how sick I am to still want him as badly as I do. It goes through my head that he finally admitted that he loved me…but then as quickly I remember that he said those words to buffer his request and I get pissed off all over again. I growl. “Errgh! Isn’t it obvious I’m not trying for attention?”
They all laugh at me, Geri the hardest, hugging me as I sit on the tall stool beside her, “Baby, you walk in here exuding pheromones from every pore and you expect them to not notice? You’re crazy!”
“Pheromones, huh?” My cell phone vibrates and I see that it is Simon. Didn’t I make myself clear when I peeled out of his driveway? My heart speeds up and my palm itches to answer, even though I’m pissed as hell. My mind is pissed. My
body has been horny since I sat down on his damn couch and looked at his damn window and remembered how well we fuck together. I hate myself for wanting him.
The boys at the bar start making noise, trying to draw attention and, as I shove my unanswered phone back into my hip pocket, I realize that I’m in enough of a mood to give it to them. Why men think loud and obnoxious equates to sexy is beyond me. I unzip my gray hoodie and pull it off, revealing that I am wearing a tiny white tank with no bra underneath. “I’ll take care of the appetizer order.”
“No, Simone.” Geri puts a restraining hand on my arm. I jerk out of her grip, daring her with my eyes to try to stop me. Our gazes catch, we both bristle.
“Let her be.” Tina leans a shoulder in close to Geri, whispering as she does loudly enough for us both to hear, “Can’t you tell she needs to blow off some steam?”
I lift my eyebrow in a singular challenge at Geri before turning on them both to saunter over to the bar, squeezing between the two loudest men. I give the bartender our table number and appetizer order, taking the pint of O’Hara’s Irish Red she hands me with a wink, knowing she means for this one to be on the house. “Thanks, Sandy.”
I wink at her with a smirk. The beer seems a fair exchange for the scene we both know is coming, since I go way back with Sandy. Even though she knew me in the days I would never have started anything. That was her job then—head cheerleader at Pasadena High, chief troublemaker, center of the limelight. I was the one pushed as close to the wall, hiding as far in the shadows as I could get, though by watching, I knew how a girl like Sandy handled herself. I guess we’ve just changed roles in the last few decades. Now I’m in the limelight, scene-stealer, sometimes troublemaker. I smile at the flash of memory, from the time before I was ever known as Simone.
The girl I was then wasn’t bold. Or sexy. And I’ve spent twenty years perfecting both.
Whipping the elastic tie from my ponytail, I let my hair fall around my shoulders, shaking it free. I lean back against the bar, lift the frosted mug to my lips and drop my head back, stretching my neck out as I chug. Right on cue, the loudest of the obnoxious boys puts his hand on my shoulder. “Well, hello beautiful.”
I turn to face him, running the mouth of the cool glass along my bottom lip, before asking seductively, “Hello, yourself. What’s your name?”
“They call me Jim.”
“Oh they do, do they?” I ask, eyes widening for effect. On the inside, my femme fatale is doing a happy dance. I want him to want me. I want him to want me so bad his balls ache from the wanting…right up until the moment I smack down his ego with rejection. I almost feel sorry for him. I’ve spent twenty years perfecting sexy and, noting that he is probably all of twenty-five, know his hormone-ruled mind doesn’t stand a chance. Such a baby face and a body that five years ago may have been sculpted of stone but has recently gone soft, making him appear even younger, despite his two-day growth of stubble.
He nods, leaning in close enough to gag me on his heavy, cheap cologne. He reaches up to stroke my hair and I grab his testicles through his jeans, squeezing hard, too hard for him to jerk free. “Did they ever tell you that it was impolite to touch a girl without asking permission? ’Cause I bust balls bigger than yours every day and I really don’t like being touched without being asked. Call it my pet peeve.”
Jim starts stuttering and fidgeting around, but getting out of my grip isn’t going to be easy. The man beside him starts laughing, “I told you man, don’t be messing with those lesbos! This’ll teach you.”
“Oh, I don’t swing that way,” I correct, winking.
The man standing behind Jim points at me, mouth gaping, “Oh my God!” He hits the man identified as Jim on the back of his head. “Do you know who she is?”
He shakes his head, still looking down at his crotch, no doubt wondering how he is going to get free from the vice-grip my fingers have on his balls.
“You idiot. She’s that famous…” he stumbles over the words and I supply, “Porn star?”
The friend nods emphatically. “You know, she did that thing last summer.”
Jim looks at him as if he doesn’t know what his friend is talking about. “What the fuck are you talking about, Luke?”
The man now identified as Luke looks embarrassed, trying to jog Jim’s memory. I supply one, “Did you see the video that was made to commemorate the world’s longest daisy chain?”
Jim’s eyes brighten.
Bingo.
He seems to forget that I could easily destroy any chance he ever had of procreating when he blurts, “Holy shit! You don’t say! You’re that bitch who fucked—” He is interrupted by Luke smacking him on the back of his head hard enough to make him grunt. “Yeah, that, fool. Don’t go all crude now. Simone hangs with famous people, you know, rock stars and shit. Just last week she was clubbing in Aspen with Tommy Lee. You don’t touch a woman like that! And you don’t talk about her like she’s yesterday’s trash. Now, you say you’re sorry!”
“Sorry.” He does as he’s told, looking sheepish, and I wonder if he is even twenty-five. “I don’t suppose I could get your autograph?”
“No.” I shake my head, admonishing him, “Now why don’t you boys go find some other bar to be loud and obnoxious in?”
I release his balls and give both him and Luke a shove toward the door before taking my beer. I watch to make sure they’ve taken my advice before going back to the table. I arrive at the same time as the appetizers and find myself in the middle of a debate about how the porn industry contributes to the victimization of women. I pull my hoodie back on, pushing my arms into the sleeves and pulling the hood over my hair, trying once again to hide the fact that I am a girl, or sexy.
Thankfully, the food quiets the table for the length of time it takes for the first round of bangers with chips and tortillas with spinach dip to disappear. My reprieve ends as I grab the last handful of golden fried chips.
“You totally disgust me.” Geri leans across the table, pointing a finger at me from the hand-wrap she has around her beer. “Don’t get me wrong, I love you, but what you do…it’s just gross.” She smiles and I know she is trying to goad me into a fight, even if it is friendly verbal sparring. The problem is that the more Geri drinks, the more vocal she gets, and I do not need the entire bar crowd hearing us fight over the fact that I am a porn star.
“You know, Geri, I won’t be offended because once, I was just like you, having all manner of puritanical prejudices trapped inside my head. I’m not going to apologize for who I am or what I do.” I’m smiling, laughing really, because the difference between her and me is really as close as one person stepping in and changing your life…by changing how you think. For me, it was Simon.
I look at Geri, seeing her as a beautiful woman, even though every man at the bar would disagree with that statement. Sure, she’s butch, and brawn, but she glows with an inner beauty that is spellbinding. I pull my eyes from her, trying to keep it from being obvious that I’m staring at her. Of all the girls at the table, I know her least, and I hate that, but there has always been a barrier between what could be a better friendship. I don’t try to overanalyze it.
It would be simple if it was just my profession and, though I’m not sure when my job started disturbing her so much, I know that the tension was there before her irritation at what I do for a living. That part has only recently gotten worse, seeming to make the divide between us worse. I don’t back down, though, despite my desire to be better friends. “I’m. A. Porn star. Geri. Deal with it.”
Angry, she sputters, though the verbal sparring has only just begun. I can go all day. Nothing she can say will be anything I haven’t already heard. No judgment will be too harsh, because I’ve already judged myself harder than anyone possibly could.
“Did you just call me puritanical?”
“Prejudiced is what I heard,” Tina goads her, winking at me.
“Puritanically prejudiced.” I correct them both, lifting my whiskey
. “Here’s to prejudices!”
She gasps and then starts laughing. She pulls me into a tight hug. “I hate what those men do to you!”
“You just wish you were the one doing—” I stop myself mid-jest, seeing her eyes go wide, and realize that I have both shocked and hurt her with my words. I regret that last shot of whiskey, the one that was one too many, the one that gave me the insight that she might just have a crush on me. Thankfully, she recovers quickly. Leaning in close to me, she whispers into my ear, her voice seeming like liquid sex, her breath warm on my cheek, sending a teasing chill down my spine. “Someday, beautiful, I may just try to change your stripes.”
We make brief eye contact before she turns to the others and lifts her glass in a toast. “To someday.”
For a moment, I’m dazed, watching her, wondering if she’s pushed our friendly flirting up a notch. My heart pounds a little faster at the thought, but I don’t dwell on it because everyone is lifting their glasses and we all toast and drink. Tina immediately pours us another round.
I lift my glass. “We are strong women who won’t apologize for who we are!” It is our rallying cry because we are a diverse group, my girls and I, and there are so many reasons for us to all despise each other, but we don’t focus on our differences, we focus on our similarities. It’s how we’ve remained friends for six years. Two glasses join mine. “No apologies!”
We all look expectantly at Geri and reluctantly she lifts her glass. “Strong women.”
I make a face at Geri and mouth, “I love you.” I couldn’t be so open if I ever thought for a second that she really meant what she’d said, about wanting to change my stripes. She was just playing, teasing…
And if it’s a little crush, that’s okay—she’ll get over a little crush.