Sitting on my couch very Wednesdayingly around 7 PM on a Monday, I remember my day with the porn star on the floor below me.
As most hormonally imbalanced people have done un-, or the better, consciously done over time, I pieced together what a porn star’s life was like from porn, non-porn television, and day dreams. It always seemed no less than great but never better than amazing; I was certain they had their amazing days just like I have my great days now, but it wasn’t consistently at amazing that’s just absurd. Lots of Limp Bizkit, lots of optional blow, a buffet of crab legs/cheesecake, a soft serve machine, clean glasses and dishes, a lot of white walls, guys who don’t do a lot of talking, and no apologies all within giant houses that none of them seemed to own but had no problem having sex in. In between digesting omega-3’s, one would go in front of some bright lights, get over their fear of people watching and waiting for them to make the first move, take the sex level up from 0, and then head back to the buffet thinking to oneself, “this definitely sounds like the same songs they made for that really bad album.”
The reality of this life is far from my strung together idealized version, at least for the example 11 feet below. First, I would like to admit that this is not as cool as my middle school self once believed - not only is it disenchanting but it’s also annoying, she’s very loud and disruptive during casual sex with her boyfriend who is a DJ, presumably, professionally. Her boyfriend must be still trying to find his “sound” for he plays loud terrible music non-stop, which comes close to my middle school fantasy of being a or around porn stars but instead of Limp Bizkit it’s Mudvayne or Disturbed or Staind or indiscriminate rap. They own two small dogs that are seemingly afraid of life and, I imagine, pray for death every morning. They cook weird shit. He owns a marine uniform, whether or not he ever once was one is unknown. She goes to Los Angeles often.
Monday at 8:30 AM, they’re not awake because the dogs are dead silent and there are no sex noises. At noon there are dog noises, the source is still indeterminate. It becomes 1 and there are rumblings around the house - she sits outside smoking. Sometimes the dogs accompany her, but not today, not now - maybe they’re dead. 1:30, they are not - dog noises again, the source could only comprehensibly be the dogs. 2:20 comes with subtle noises of housework or at least the presumed common labor that should produce such noises; I could be completely wrong and there are set designers that take care of this around 7:15 every evening when the first wave of music usually starts. Some other possibilities to explain the 2:20 noise: preparing a bad meal, resuscitating the dog, smoking inside and then cleaning the walls and furniture of the smell, some yoga to make herself think that she’s going to start doing this every day, rearranging her French literature but this time in alphabetical order by existential-political undertone, rebuilding her therapeutic box fort to help deal with paternal issues, or minor woodwork.
The late afternoon approaches and fades into evening, and there is little noise except for some confirmed dog barking and another trip outside for smoking. The boyfriend comes home to the downstairs mid-range apartment from his must-have day job, or wakes up, and then the music starts to play - at this point it’s all original stuff. Sometimes they cover up their “love” making with music but not very well; at this point, they are not pretending they have it all figured out. Their relationship probably transcends conversation.
The music shuts off around 8; they probably watch Bones. Some nights the music comes back on around 10, but not this night. It stays quiet.
Around 12:30 DJ Sexparty and Pornstar make fast art. Everything is audible and I have the unfortunate knowledge of their pace and what their skin sounds like. They finish early on this Monday night and they don’t talk afterward.