In love with a porn star part 1 (Incomplete character study; if anyone interested I'll post more)

Published by Mackers in the blog Mackers's blog. Views: 1549

I remember queuing up for hours with all these presents: six bikinis, a new Samsung Galaxy mobile phone, some jewellery. The memory of it now brings back the sweltering California heat, and there was me in my cargo slacks and flip-flops - a pasty-faced Casper unaccustomed to the heat. I had all these things in my hands which I was struggling to carry and my internal compass was sort of fucked as I ambled up all twisted and struggling trying not to drop any of the items I had bought.


-Hi, she smiled.


It could have been projected professionalism, her chirpiness. Whatever happened I was nervous and sweaty; my articulation skills seemed to fuck off to God knows where and I was sort of stuttering as I scrambled into a plastic bag at my feet that contained all her DVDs, which I had the hope of obtaining autographs for.


-How are you? She asked.


What an angel, I was thinking. She wore a low-cut top, and I couldn’t help but sneak the odd lecherous look in the general direction of her cleavage as she signed my DVDs, so much so I almost forgot the art of conversation.


-Eh, I’m very well, eh, thanks, I spluttered.


She handed my DVDs back to me. At that moment I felt like lifting her up and taking her swiftly out of the room in my arms like Richard Gere in An Officer and a Gentleman. My presents sat on the table and she merely scanned through them with quick, cursory glances. The most she could say to each of them was “Aww these are all really great presents, thanks!”, in a facetious sort of way, oblivious to the fact I’d spent the majority of my wages on them. I felt a blush come to my face. She was probably well used to be being pampered and spoiled; money being no object. In any case I had hoped to spend the rest of the day at her stall, having waited so long, if only to get my money’s worth, but instead I was politely ushered away by her handlers. Behind me was the pressure of a growing queue, a bunch of eager beavers not dissimilar to yours truly who were waiting on the sidelines for their brush with the star. And I got up with some nervous smiles and goodbyes and moved awkwardly to sulk in the foyer not far away. I suppose this was a symbolic signification to me that my day was over. The porn convention had on show a vast array of other talent, but it paled in comparison to what had just preceded it. I visited some of the other stalls out of a vague sense of curiosity, but to me my personal porn convention was over, at least until some other time I hoped to meet her.


#


Gauge, the woman I am in love with. Light-skinned, creamy complexion, dark raven hair. Amazing. This girl, you know, I'd never seen anything like her before. She caught my Jap's eye straight away, and it's not even that she was exceptionally good-looking. It was more her attitude and application to her job which impressed me the most, which to this day is unmatched in the industry. The most I can say was that I was struck by her insatiable sexual appetite that made me quiver like some weak, pathetic beta-male. She is a petite young woman of 5'4. I started watching her when she was a novice in the industry at nineteen, and now she's in her mid-twenties. We're both the same age, so in a way I can relate to some of the bumps she may have went through; the track of her progress has mirrored aspects of my own life, in a way. It's like she's my girlfriend, which is weird to think about. Her mischievous face, paradoxically angelic, and when she gets into her work with such youthful abandon my heart quickens as if being injected with some pure liquid cocaine. Whatever she represents in her job is transcendental to me. To say it’s sinful sounds inherently wrong. I would disagree with the religionists and feminists. For me, it’s a strangely spiritual experience, blessed and wholesome despite it being driven by physical—some would say violent—acts. I didn’t know people could perform like that, to complete such feats, and even at that young age I felt we should always appreciate the people who push the boat out like that.


I began visiting Twitter to get some updates on her daily life. It was primarily to find out what type of person she truly was, out of curiosity. It didn't matter that I'd seen all her videos; this was, like the film industry, looking behind the facade of the performer to get a "behind the scenes" look at their real personality. Over the years I'd safely say I've spent an inordinate amount of time on her twitter feed. I wouldn't like to quantify it, and a doctor would probably tell you it's not healthy, but I'm addicted. I’m a loyal follower now, visiting daily. Most of the time her profile is simply an innocuous drivel of advertisements, promotions, fawning from her fans on her latest productions. She often breaks the tedium up with teasing instagrams of her lying on the beach, for example, or in her car driving along freeways, or, my own personal favourite, a tirade of luscious selfies in mirrors. I often find I cannot resist a gush that’s embarrassing for its lack of dignity that it’s more akin to keyboard word-vomit. I'd say you can easily tell I'm an adoring fan. Like the other day she posted up a picture of her in a convertible Mercedes Benz SLR and a message that said “Going shopping, so excited xx” and I told her to be careful because that was an extremely fast car and there’d no doubt be lots of traffic. She didn't reply, but that's okay. I'm fine with that. She has a lot of followers.


#


For a number of years now I've worked as an Accountant at a place called Direct IT services, and the less particulars that are said about that, the better. The only thing I would say is that no one knows me in the work sphere. Well, they know me but not in the true sense. It's funny how you spend all this time with people in the workplace yet no one has the faintest idea of what anyone else is truly like. In essence, we're all strangers. I've made a living disguising my true feelings on certain questionable or taboo subjects – all I have to do is put on a certain glazed over expression so people think I have no thoughts in my head, or any thoughts worth sharing. And after a while no one really does any investigating, about who I am, what I do etc., either because they genuinely don't care or because they're too wrapped up in their own little bubbles.


One day in work startled me and was the first real sign something was wrong. Anyway, I think it was a Monday. I don't know what it was but there was something wrong with me. From initial boredom in the office, I began to dream about the weekend which, in opening a kind of doorway, it then fostered a certain inner excitement within me about other inappropriate things, not suited for the workplace. People in the office were talking a load of oul shite about what they did at the weekend, which mostly, as far as I could gather, consisted of a bottle of wine and a ganders at The X Factor; and I found myself dealing with emotions I couldn't control. At my desk it soon transpired I was befuddled with wild fantasies which I won't describe – entering intrusively at the mere slightest initiation, that is, by thinking of the weekend– and it was there and then that it struck me that the whole business with this girl over time had clearly scrambled my brains, hindering my functionality in the nine to five sphere.


It was twelve in the afternoon. I was at the photocopier printing something out, a quiet hum of chatter in the office, and all I could think of was her, her scenes, her career, and my desires. I got very aroused, I have to say, which I tried to hide. Can you imagine the embarrassment of sharing a photocopier with something between your legs that would cripple a donkey, me keeled over at almost a ninety degree angle and still trying to convey a sense of normality? I thought, “My God. My obsession is my addiction”, an addiction which started as a harmless but flirtatious pre-occupation and then somewhat mushroomed through the years to become more a problem than a hobby. These were obviously “first-world problems” of a twenty-first century deviant. Absurdly, I imagined myself on the beaches of Normandy—D-day—a rifle in my hand, and I contemplated the distinct possibility it was my last day on earth. The internet wasn’t even invented in 1943. Pornography came in black and white stills and had poor sound quality (if not an entirely silent production.) Hairiness was rampant and waxing was something you only knew of in candles. Any depraved ideas I might have had in 1943 came entirely from reading the works of grossly-libertine French writers like Marquis De Sade who hailed from hundreds of years previous. And, apart from that, everything else is left to the imagination. So at that moment beside the copier, I was on the beach. I was scared to death. I felt the urge to masturbate at the moment of truth when my brothers-in-arms needed me. Imagine that? The conflict, tearing me apart. I was crying on the beach, my belt lying open, me trying to complete my act of selfishness but I can’t because German bullets are raining down around my head. My buddies were perplexed. They were screaming at me, dragging me along and telling me to “man the fuck up” because that is what soldiers do in the heat of battle. I tell them I’m in love with a girl who I can’t specify, because she doesn’t exist yet. They think I’ve gone mad. But they pull me up. They help their mates, they believe in camaraderie. I do nothing in return. I was a historically-imagined, sexually dysfunctional Oppum from Saving Private Ryan.


-Is there something wrong with the machine? My middle-aged female boss, Karen, asked me. I was still bent over the side of the photocopier as if it was malfunctioning, so I could bend over with a feasible reason, thinking about porno and war intermeshed.


-No, it's fine, thanks I said.

I felt like telling her it was more likely ME who was suffering from a malfunction but that I would have whatever was wrong sorted in a minute, until it subsided. I returned to my desk and the thoughts came back with a vengeance, pervasive and unrelenting. I thought I might be overwhelmed. So I went to the toilet. These powerful, uncontrollable feelings shot through my head and down my spine and right to the sweet spot, and what happened next I'm not exactly proud of. I obtained some file paper from the tray and held it in my right hand, you'll understand to disguise a certain dubious activity that was under way in the crotchal region. The forces had to be released. And so I got up from my desk and went to the toilet and did the unmentionable, at a furious unselfconscious pace, I should add, the danger of being caught exciting me, in a way; for if someone walked into the toilets at that precise moment to have a piss there was a chance we could never be able to look each other in the eye again: a kind of awkward, corridor claustrophobia. But I didn't care. I did it anyway. She was appearing to me in graphic holograms, behind my closed eyelids, sitting on the toilet, my head arched back in this ridiculous ecstacy. I was shocked and amused that my libido was so hay-wired and unpredictable, but I did what I had to do and that got me through the rest of the day. I chuckled about this incident later but realised that I would probably need help some time soon.


#


For a number of weekends I took it easy, doing a bit of gardening and living a relatively peaceful life. I did things like go to the swimming pool, juxtaposing such activities in an attempt to provide a temporary respite from the torture and chaos of this girl, invading my thoughts. I had to try and ban the internet because the tunnels which it led to was taking up too much mental space, disturbing the reasonable confines of peace and taste. Most of all I wanted to afford myself a kind psychiatric re-charge of the batteries. It didn't work.


Two weeks later it was a Saturday and I was in my garden. I was ambling around the edges in a state of abstraction with the flowers, meditating-in-kind to try and initiate a deep bliss which couldn't be disturbed. Thing is, I don't even like gardening that much. I was bored, walking around and it occurred to me I was like some old geriatric with a penchant for daffodils. And this unwelcome thought entered my head which I tried to ignore. It beamed down through the clouds and into my head. I had the shears in my hand and I did a bit of trimming, but the intrusion wouldn't go away. I then saw a neighbour of mine, Mr McNally, an old savant who always talks to me about the bin man, and he waved across a couple of gardens. I smiled back at him. My neighbours aren't bad people but they aren't exactly rock-stars. To this day I'm scared of the possibility of them ever finding out my true nature: like wolves they’d feed on weakness and spread their gossiping like a contagious disease chain-mailed through the whole street. And when I see them I imagine them with their own problems; their own internal anguish. I can see through their disguised, reciprocal smiles and waves back across our waist-high fences—you can’t bullshit a bull-shitter—that they’re hiding something too. But are they as deviant and depraved as me? Who can ever truly tell the mysteries and nuances of what lies among them.


I went into my house and stuck on the kettle. The lap top sat on the kitchen table like this black plastic intruder, staring at me, winking me in the eye, propositioning me like a prostitute. I cold-shouldered the lap top, as if it was a wife or girlfriend and we were on bad terms at some social gathering. As it happened a young girl who lives three doors down came knocking on the door selling sponsorship tickets for something at school. This didn't happen straight away; to my best estimation the knock came after about an hour or so of me being in the kitchen; I don't remember much about that intervening hour when I switched on the kettle. It's like it never existed and, if it did, the visceral experience of it was like being underwater, a dulled perception, blurred and faint. There's no other conclusion I can come to other than that somehow some urge overcame me and I ended up lying in my living room in the midst of a marathon session on the laptop, ferocious movements, my shorts around my ankles, a mountainous mound of wasted tissues of emotion lying limp by my side. The knock on the door sent a severe jolt through me. I was instantly resuscitated out of a catatonic stupor and, jumping up, I nearly fell with a clatter of busted knees, managing to sneak a look out the blinds, which I closed earlier in a trance, hiding behind my burgundy curtains, which I also closed earlier, two fingers separating the blinds ever so subtly. My face felt tomato-jawed, flamed with exercise and exertions, albeit stationary on a sofa. And so in this “state” I foolishly opened the door.


-Hi Mr Frazer. Do you want to buy a ticket for the Zambia fund?


I thought I was hallucinating. My glasses must have been sitting wayward, obfuscating my vision with some funny interaction with a fading sun. Through some prism it produced a raft of rainbow colours coming cascading down through the background trees – messianic-like – into my eyes, almost as though it was her personally who had graced me with her presence, a younger supple version of her coming specifically to my door to see how I was doing; selling tickets of destiny. Seconds passed, maybe minutes, I don’t know, as I stood in a paralysed daze until I recalibrated my senses with a blink and realised where I was.


-Are you okay, Mr Frazer?


I closed the door with a slam. I’d frightened myself. I began to question my own sanity and awareness of reality. I put the laptop under the stairs and tied it together with some sturdy rope. I had padlocked the door of the cubby-hole in the stairs, threw away the key, sat down, got back up, marched to the shed out the back, came back, decimated the pad lock with a crow bar, cut the sturdy rope with my sharpest Stanley knife – both items procured hastily from the shed. I went straight back to where I was before the disruption. All of the tabs remained opened on the lap top, my living room a mess. I was an automaton. I put on a spongy pair of earphones which coated my ears and isolated my head from the rest of the world. With the volume turned up full – the sound of the videos shuddering through me, grunts and moans and splutters and heavy breathing – I thought of nothing else. The lap top was my whole universe. I was sucked right in to its contents. I felt vaguely ashamed with what I was doing, but continued nonetheless, a picture of Jesus hanging by the main door of my living room, something which for a long time I could no longer look at without experiencing a vague and implacable guilt. I felt pathetic but compulsive. It went on and on, one video after another, tab by tab, hour after hour, the vigour never dropping down below a stable intensity. I couldn’t help myself. I was on it for so long I was almost crying by the end. And so I was back to square one. But that could be considered a bad day.
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