My porn star wife

My Porn star wife
Not a ruse to bring more traffic to my website; honestly!

‘Yes’ he said in a faltering voice, more to do with nerves than commitment, more to do with the lack of sleep and the copious tequilas shot before dawn than sincerity; he’d just about convinced himself of that. Of course he wanted to marry her, look at her, radiant in her ivory dress, the makeup, the matching bleached teeth and anus, the flowers in her hair. This was her big day; she’d planned it for months, right down to the smallest detail. He’d offered to help, as one should, but he was soon sidelined by the mothers, the girlfriends and the manic wedding planner with her incessant, creepy benevolent smile!

Talk about a spare part at a wedding, he was the spare part! If for any reason he had failed to get to the church on time, with the rings she had chosen nestled in the pocket of the suit she had chosen, she’d have married the vicar, the deacon, the choir boy!

What had happened last night? Or more to the point, why did last night happen? The stag night had taken place in Copenhagen – she booked it, even vetted the strippers, nevertheless despite the promise of a wild time it all turned out to be rather dull. Robbed of options his party were ferried from one bar/strip club/disco/even a museum at some point, to another, in a limousine laid on by his fiancée. They never had enough time in one place to relax, to enjoy themselves which, he now thought was the plan all along. They had been chaperoned, in essence, by her from a distance. But that was two weeks ago, he’d given up on it and resigned himself to the fact that, well, that was that.

Last night?

He looked at her, all gleaming; she loved every minute of it, the flower girls, the maids of honour, and the rented pot bellied pig trained to carry the rings on a velvet cushion. Next it would be the photographs, her personal photographer, ‘Richie’; a total sleaze bag had the job, of course. Oh how he despised Richie, not because Richie was gay or camp or anything like that, not because everything was ‘darling’ or ‘marvellous’ or ‘too serene’ no it wasn’t that at all. He despised Richie because Richie Entwhisle would sell his own Grandmother for a line of coke. Richie ‘adored’ her because she meant money, and she ‘adored’ Richie because ‘a gay friend’ was ‘très vogue’, a necessary accessory like a handbag!

Last night had started with him, with Richie banging on the door of his hotel suite, she may be a porn star but she was nothing if she wasn’t a traditionalist. The night before the wedding he had been kicked out of the villa and sent to spend the night alone in a swanky hotel in Mayfair. The groom should never see the bride the night before the wedding; he was out on his ear, left afloat in the smoke and smog. He’d had a swim, a work out and a massage before allowing himself a Caesar salad with French fries and a bottle of monk brewed beer. Scarface, the original, directed by Howard Hawks was on some retro film channel, he loved that film, thought it superior to the Al Pacino offering; he had every intention of watching it.

Then the knock at the door.

‘Smile for the camera’ Richie was saying. They were outside the church now covered in confetti and kisses and well meaning wishes uttered by well meaning people he didn’t know. Look at him, no sign of any hangover on his smug counterfeit face, a face permanently frozen in a Botox moment.

This, he thought mockingly, is the first time she has worn clothes in front of a camera. The first time they met she was preparing herself for a scene in a film called ‘The muff diver takes the plunge’. The scene required some serious gymnastics and a close up of her labia. He had the very serious job of lighting the set, during which he asked her out for dinner. At first she laughed at him in front of her cronies, including Richie; while her co star was being fluffed by a wannabe; the wannabe didn’t laugh on account of her mouth being full, but he could see a twinkle of mirth in her eyes.

Later she called him, apologised for her behaviour on set and begged him to take her out; which he did.
Her ‘occupation’ to one side she turned out to be very normal. They had both grown up in middle class families, semi religious, foreign holidays, private health care and good schools. Her parents, like his, had met and married young and were, to all intense and purposes, still together, at least socially.
They had a lot in common. In fact it had been weeks before he managed to broach the subject of her career. At first her reaction seemed acute, severe to him, peppering her reply with words like misogynist, sexist, chauvinist, typical and arsehole!

Eventually, after sushi and champagne and their first fuck, a fuck that had almost never happened due to comparison fear, they finally talked about it, that night and that night only. It was also their last fuck, after that it was making love and only love. She’d allowed him the fantasy, and to be honest, however much he enjoyed it, the love making was so much better; she couldn’t fake that, surely?’

She said that it was easy for her to remove herself emotionally on set, to isolate her feelings; acting was just acting at the end of the day! She was no different from Meryl Streep! She had no hang ups about using her body for financial gain, she just happened to be very good at it. Most of the guys on set were either gay or brainless, sweet, but not exactly boyfriend material.

The thing is, if he was totally honest with himself, what a catch, a porn star for a girlfriend, for a wife! On the other hand his wife fucked other men (and women, but that didn’t count) for a living. On top of which thousands of spotty teenagers and sexually retarded middle aged men jerked off while watching her movies on laptops, in low lit bedrooms with crusty carpets and dank drawn curtains.

Once Richie had his shots, it was off to the Hilton for cocktails and cake before jetting off to Barbados for two weeks. He needed to remember what actually happened last night, no point in asking Richie, Richie wouldn’t tell him, he knew that much.

He opened the door expecting her, all coy and coquettish, or room service at the very least only to find Richie dangling a bag of cocaine under his nose. ‘Last night as a free man, what say we bond?’ The last thing he wanted to do was to ‘bond’ with Richie, what he wanted to do was watch Scarface in his boxer shorts torpidly supping beer until he fell asleep.

Somehow he must have been persuaded because the next thing he remembered was doing a line in the toilets of a west end bar. He remembered this because he happened to glance at his reflection in the mirror above the sink, he saw a boy from the Devon, far from home, acting like a cock!

The next thing he remembered was shooting tequila with the naked fluffer in his Hotel suite! Then a huge blank space, with no recollection of what might have happened. He awoke to find a bombed out fluffer in his bed! Had he slept with her, of course he bloody did! Who wouldn’t have? Oh he had really messed up now, there was no way he could keep this from her, she probably already knew!

When they recognised that they were officially a couple she had made him promise to remain faithful to her, she didn’t agree with ‘open relationships’, she wanted exclusivity, monogamy; she had old fashioned values. She went on to explain that trust was very important to her, that fidelity was paramount. She acknowledged a jealous nature and if they wanted to continue seeing each other, which he did, then he must remain faithful; he’d promised to do that.

She must know; she knew everything that went on in her world and now he was very much in her world, not his, not at all. She would not allow him to spoil her big day, not after all the effort, all the planning and money spent. No she would continue the charade until the last sugared almond had been spat out, until nothing on the dance floor was left but half deflated balloons dancing in the eerie breeze of dawn.

Now he felt nothing but regret, he loved her, without the need for conditions or prenuptial agreements, without reservation and now, he, not her had broken the trust!

A thought suddenly occurred to him, what if it was a test? What if SHE had orchestrated the whole night? Why would bitchy Richie – who hated him-want to bond? Richie never did anything under his own steam, as for the fluffer, she must have been a honey trap, an enticing diversion! He’d been framed!

He looked at his wife, gave her his best smile, she smiled back, even gave him a little wink as they made their way towards the limousine. That wink? What did that wink mean? A bead of sweat dripped from his brow, his stomach turned summersaults as she leant into him, warm, oozing happiness and whispered in his ear….

Author’s intrusion
Please insert your own ending. No pun intended, really.

About CageWriter

Englishman Living in France with my wife and bilingual son. I'm a struggling writer as in I struggle to write even though I feel it's my calling. I get easily side tracked, this blog being a case in point!
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