Porn Star

I’m being silly. I’ve done lots of scenes without Logan. I’ve had lots of sex that wasn’t with Logan. I can have sex now in a scene without Logan.

I start to get out of the car, and my stomach lurches. For half a second I wonder if I can pretend I’m sick, but I quickly dismiss that plan. The phrase “the show must go on”? I’m pretty sure a porn director coined it. After a performer has been booked and the contracts have been signed, there’s almost nothing that could prevent the show from being filmed. Even if the performer is on the rag, even if she’s puking her guts up, even if she’s got Montezuma’s Revenge and they’re shooting an anal scene—the show goes on. There’s too much money on the floor not to; a crew and other actors that have to be paid. It’s too expensive to forego a scene for just one person.

I check the time. I have a few minutes before I need to be inside so I get back in the car and phone my agent. The call goes to voicemail. I groan as it plays but sound like my usual chipper self when I leave my message. “Hey, it’s Devi. I’m at the LaRue job, and I can’t…” My voice trails off.

Any way I explain this is going to sound terrible, especially left in a voicemail. Besides, I don’t know exactly what it is I want her to do for me. Talk me down? Remind me of my obligations? Tell me it’s okay to cancel? “Just call me. Please. As soon as possible.”

I hang up and stare at my cell for several minutes—four of them, to be precise—willing it to ring.

It doesn’t. Now, officially late for my call time, I start to panic. What if I can’t get aroused? What if I can? Is this cheating? Can it even be cheating when I’m not officially anything to Logan? Only a sort-of girlfriend? Can you even cheat on a porn star?

I’m overwhelmed with doubts and anxiety and this isn’t like me at all. I’m level-headed, dammit. I’m calm, cool, collected. I’m a professional.

So get your shit together and act like one!

I take a deep breath.

A professional would pull up her big-girl panties, go in and do the scene. It’s one scene. Two hours of my life. I can imagine the guy is Logan. I can pretend it’s for him like the last scene was. Afterwards, I don’t have to book another het scene again until I figure out, well, everything.

Right. Yes. I can do this.

One more breath, and I’m out of my car. Three more, and I’ve made it to the door. A sign on the door says to come in quietly in case the camera’s running. I turn the handle and step in.

And run smack into Raven.

And it’s embarrassing because I run into her with such force that the reusable shopping bag I’m carrying full of wardrobe choices spills and my panties are strewn all over the entryway and on top of Raven’s Jimmy Choo ballet slipper-style shoes.

Yes, that Raven. The Raven. The only Raven. Logan’s Raven.

He’s never talked to me about her, and I’m not sure what all went down with Raven and Logan, but everyone in the biz, as well as a lot of people outside of the biz, knew about their relationship. They were an “It” couple. For nearly three years, they made XBIZ’s “Porn Pair We Ship” List and frequently graced the cover of Adult Video News together. They played on the same charity softball team. They had an Instagram account for Prior, their Yorkie. They held hands at the O’Toole Films press conference where he announced his commitment to respect women in the industry. When Logan won his last AVN award, he thanked her with an intimate wink that suggested they had a whole secret language between them.

Then, one day, without any explanation, Logan’s name wasn’t on Prior’s social media accounts anymore, and Raven posted a vague Facebook status about having to deal with movers. The media immediately assumed they’d broken up. Neither party confirmed or denied it, but it was obvious to everyone that the love bubble had burst.

I can’t say that I wasn’t happy about it. And curious. But I respected Logan’s privacy.

Now, seeing her, I realize that by never asking him about her, I am just as unprepared to face her as I am for this scene. What’s happening between Logan and me is brand new, but it’s definitely a relationship now. And yet, I know nothing about the ex.

I should have asked.

He should have told me.

I ignore the tightening knot in my belly. “Sorry,” I say, bending down to scoop up my underwear, hoping she’ll walk past, and we can circumvent the whole ex-girlfriend encounter.

But she says, “Devi,” and she’s not warm or surprised, and she’s not trying to get by me, and it almost feels like she’s been waiting for me.