Implied Mortality

It’s an awkward thing to be in love with a porn star. I can harbor no delusions about being her first, or biggest, or best(?). She’s known countless other men (and women) and the evidence is impossible to ignore, the scenes scattered far and wide across the Internet. ‘Love conquers all’ or so they say; and this must be no exception. I love her. I see her every day, I hear her talking to me, to ME, and I love it. Her willingness to satisfy my every carnal whim intoxicates and I come back for more and more, day after day. She knows without the clumsy dance of speech what excites me. She knows. And she likes it. Or so she’s lead me to believe (she could be acting after all). But I know it’s no act, she does it all for me and loves every minute. And I love her for it.

She travels with me on vacations and business trips alike, we spend foggy nights in London, locked in embrace. We share daiquiri’s as the sun sets over sandy beaches. My constant companion, my love, my porn star. When we’re apart I long for her, to see her lips, her hips, her inviting eyes. She’s there after work, waiting for me to return. We spend lazy Sunday’s in bed, together, dreaming about the future. Should we have kids? How many? What will we name them and which sports will they play. Baseball I say. She agrees, repeatedly…emphatically.

She has no idea who I am of course. We’ve never met, my love and I, and we never will. I’m in love with a porn star.