Page 36 of Exrated
“Nah, just take that hurt, because I don’t care what you say, I know that shit had to hurt, and bottle it up into some bitterness. Bitterness takes the suck right outta everything.”
We sit in silence for a few minutes, and I let the drunkenness really kick in. I turn to Heather and laugh. “His name,” I say. “His porn name is Johnny Depth.”
She burst out in laughter. “Oh, my God. No.”
“Yes.”
“Johnny Depth?”
I nod.
“Classic.”
She stands, grabs her laptop from the entertainment center and sits on the floor, placing the laptop on the coffee table.
“What are you doing?”
“Looking him up.”
“Oh, Heather,” I whine. “I don’t wanna—”
“Shh. This is desensitization.” She pulls up the internet browser and types in the name ‘Johhny Depth’. Within seconds, all kinds of links have popped up. “Who’s Eating Gilbert’s Grape, really?” she says as she clicks on one.
At first, it’s just him walking into a room. “Oh, screw that,” she says and fast-forwards ten minutes in. I glance at the screen and see Tyler—I meanJohnny—between some girls quivering thighs. She’s screaming and fisting his thick, dark hair—just like I used to do.
“Oh, my God,” Heather says, leaning in closer to the computer screen. “I’ll tell you who’s eating Gilbert’s Grape. Well, actually…it looks like Gilbert’s the one doing the eating.”
The longer I watch it, the sicker I feel. That guy was my boyfriend. That guy was my best friend. That guy—a long moan comes from the computer then Tyler groans. “You’re a dirty whore,” he says. And that guy’s not the Tyler I knew. That’s it. I have to walk out of the room.
“Jemma,” Heather calls.
“Just, I need a minute.”
I shut the door to my bedroom, grab the remote, and flip on the TV.The Big Bang Theoryis on, but I’m too distracted to actually pay attention. I reach under my bed and pull out a photo album, opening to the first page. It’s a picture of Tyler and me at my seventh birthday party, and that knot in my stomach grows heavier. I thumb through the pages, watching the two of us grow up together in the photos. The thing with Tyler is he’s not just a small part of my past, he is in every single memory I have of my life. I stop on one of my favorite pictures. One where we’d been at the lake all day doing absolutely nothing but having sex and lounging on the pier. At seventeen, it all seemed so simple. Life seemed so certain. I can still vividly recall the look in his eyes when he leaned over me, blocking the sun before he kissed me and whispered: “I mean, how many people get to spend their entire lives with the person they love? Not one memory of my life doesn’t include you and I don’t ever want to have one that won’t.”
And that’s why I have this pit in my stomach.
I toss the photo album onto the floor and sink beneath the covers. The traffic from the highway hums outside my window and I focus on the popcorn ceiling. My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I pull it out.
I’m sorry. I was going to tell you, I swear. I just had to figure out how. Not the easiest thing to divulge. I didn’t mean to hurt you…again.
And that makes nothing better because he knows he can hurt me. He believes he can still hurt me. And I wish he couldn’t.
The crickets silence when I toss my phone onto the patio table. Groaning, I slouch further into the lounge chair.
Why, out of all the jobs in LA, did she have to pick that one? That is not how I wanted Jemma to find out about my career.Career?I have to laugh. I just called it a career. Stripping, porn, whatever—it’s just a job that pays better than anything else I’m qualified for and let’s face it, why do people even work? To make money. People take jobs they hate all the time just for the money, and whether you’ll admit it or not, everyone gets judged by their job title anyway. You work as a clerk, people assume you have no education. Teacher? You love kids. Doctor? You’re a narcissist with a God complex. Librarian? Antisocial. Bartender, you were that kid in college that partied too much. People may not agree with what I do, but the thing is, if someone wants to pay me good money to have meaningless sex and if someone wants to watch it, well, why the hell not? I’m a 24-year old single male. Hormones. Alpha. Sowing my seed guy. No pitfalls. Sex and money. Fucking sign me up.
That’s what I said, but now—well, now I see a hellavu lot more pitfalls to it.
My phone dings. Then dings again. And again.
Reaching over, I pick the phone up from the table, wondering what names she’s calling me. It dings again and again. The damn thing’s going apeshit. But it’s not text messages. It’s fucking followers on Instagram.
Holy shit. It won’t stop.
Clicking on a notification, I’m greeted by a snapshot of me balls deep in Brandi her face twisted in that god-awful fake orgasm face.Tagged by Brandi Clit. And the comment: Greatest day on set. Johnny Depth ladies—the things wet dreams are made of. #CockStar #EndlessDepth #IThinkIHaveACrush #Porn.
Fucking great.
