Which we did. Very happily.
There were other strange parts about my new life. For one thing, although I knew my classmates would be a decade younger than me, I definitely didn’t expect them all to recognize Logan O’Toole on sight. I still get covert high-fives from the boys and lots of batted eyelashes from the girls, and at least once a day, I get some person asking me for sex advice or an autograph or a date. The date offers are the hardest to deal with, not because I’m even the littlest bit tempted to date anyone other than Devi, but because I’m so laughably not tempted that it’s hard to be kind when I explain to these girls that I’m not interested. I’m sure they’re all nice and smart, but I left a life populated by the dirtiest, prettiest women imaginable to be with Devi; I’m certainly not going to be lured away by a psych major from North Dakota.
The thing is, when I fell in love with Devi, I realized what it is to look up at the stars, and once you’ve seen the stars, it’s impossible to unsee them, to go back to staring at the ground. Devi sometimes says the same thing to me, or at least I think it’s the same thing—something about different kinds of milk—but the gist is similar. There’s something that happens when you meet someone you love, something alchemical and chaotic and wonderful. That doesn’t mean it’s been easy—there have been growing pains for both of us transitioning out of porn, there have been fights about money and sex and jealousy. There have been times when loving each other—choosing each other over and over again—means repeated sacrifice and the occasional bout of suffering.
The reward, though, is worth it. Every fucking time.
Like right now, when Devi’s burning a path along my jaw with scorching, desperate kisses and I’ve finally managed to unlock the door and we both tumble into the house. She looks at me with a naughty gleam in her eye and asks, “Want to get the camera?”
“Hell yes, I do,” I groan and peel my body away from hers to grab the handheld. I knew when I left L.A. that I never wanted to perform in any scenes that weren’t with Devi, and I wasn’t sure how interested she would be in ever getting in front of a camera with me again, given all that had happened. But that very first night we were together after I came to Austin she begged me to take dirty pictures of her, and then Star-Crossed blew up so big that Vida was begging us for something like it, anything, and that evolved into us having a long-running series under the auspices of Vida’s company. It’s turned into one of her biggest moneymakers and the most successful thing I’ve ever done. In a strange twist of fate, Devi and I are more famous for porn than we were when we did it all the time. People are hungry for what we show, I guess—real chemistry, real pleasure, real affection and respect. Sometimes we post edited and cohesive scenes, sometimes we just put up raw footage, and sometimes we have live sessions for people to watch—but it’s only ever with the two of us.
Just the way we like it.
And whenever I think that I miss my old life, whenever I hear about Tanner’s fancy cinematography jobs, or whenever I see Raven winning industry award after industry award, I remind myself of those final days at home, when I was so miserable and itchy in my own skin that I could hardly stand to be alive anymore. I’m happy for Tanner and I’m even weirdly happy for Raven, because even if I don’t always like her, she works hard and she’s earned every bit of her success. But I know that life, that world, could have never made me happy in the end, not like it does for them.
My happiness is right here in front me, teasingly unzipping her gown, and suddenly I don’t have the patience to finish the more elaborate camera set-up I had in mind. I put the handheld on a tripod, plug in a few cords and click a few buttons, and then the feed is going straight to our website, live for anybody who’s on there now but also archived for later.
I unzip my own robe but leave it on, and while I’m at it, I also unbutton my slacks and free my dick, which after a full morning of craving and wanting, is thick and dark. I sit in a chair in front of the camera and pat my thigh with one hand while I stroke my cock with the other.
“Come to Logan, baby,” I say, and she doesn’t hesitate, pushing her robe off her shoulders and tugging off her dress as she comes closer. All that’s left on her body is her high heels and her graduation cap, and this is pretty much one of the biggest fantasies I’ve had since high school. I’m praying right now that I can last long enough to do it justice.
Devi effortlessly straddles me on the chair and then she’s slowly lowering herself onto my waiting erection. She’s already so fucking wet for me, but even so, it’s a tight fit and her mouth parts in a gasp when the flared edge of my crown finally breaches her entrance.