Brandi Belle’s Boyfriend
July 24, 2007
Traffic to porn star Brandi Belle’s website had been headed steadily downward, ever since she got a boyfriend. Visitors wanted to see pillow-fights that lead to tongue-kissing with other underwear-clad 20-year-olds. They wanted to see her having passionate intercourse with up to three well-endowed men of African-American descent. They did not want to see her taking leisurely strolls along the beach, or sitting on her couch on a Friday night, watching Netflix’d episodes of Doctor Who. Her forum was ablaze with angry former devotees. Her website was now pulling in only a minute fraction of the revenue it’d been pulling in when she was single. As her boyfriend, you couldn’t help but feel at least partially responsible.
“That stuff doesn’t matter to me anymore!” she assured you. “As long as I’m with you, I’m happy!”
Great, awesome, but unfortunately the bills kind of don’t pay themselves. And as far as having “former teen porn star” on your resume, let’s just say it’s not yet a well-defined career path. You didn’t make enough as a Best Buy Sales Associate (Level III, management track) to support her; she had this huge apartment by the ocean and a fetish for shopping whenever she felt a bit down (which was apparently always). Not to mention the precariously stacked pile of bills for the dedicated servers, web designers, video editors, and forum administrators. She’d had a business manager who used to handle all this stuff, but he quit in disgust right after your second date, when she’d come home all starry-eyed and sighing unicorns. He’d seen this happen to other online porn stars and knew it wouldn’t end well.
But what could you do, ditch her? Even with all this new stress, you were still dating a porn star. There are a handful of ancient, immutable laws, written in stardust across the heavens, and one of them is that if you find yourself dating a porn star, you don’t cut and run at the first sign of trouble. No: you dig in, do the heavy lifting, and make the relationship work.
There was nothing for it: she was going to have to start having sex on camera again. No biggie, you still had her the other 23 hours of the day, love would sustain, relationships are all about compromise, etc. Get the African-Americans on speed dial, let’s just do this. But she wouldn’t hear it. It was you or no one.
“I vowed when we starting dating that I would never have sex with anyone else, ever! And you’re so good in bed! It’ll be great!”
Um. You weren’t sure how true that actually was. You’d seen her old videos, and some of them were pretty lengthy. You hadn’t been to the gym in, well, a while. And let’s just say you had some lingering questions as to whether or not you fell in the 50th percentile for penis length.
“You’ll be fine! Don’t worry! This will be the best! Thank you so much!” Brandi said, and ran off to post the news on her blog. Great.
Now every night at seven Pacific she pulls you away from whatever you’re doing to go have sex, live on camera. You’re the pizza delivery boy. The plumber. The overbearing teacher. The overbearing boss. The best friend’s boyfriend. The guy walking his dog. You have 2-3 lines written in cue cards off-screen, then she just takes over and does her thing while you try to imagine there aren’t 5000 people (some of them probably coworkers) watching and critiquing everything about you and your performance.
That first time, after she tossed your stethoscope and parabolic mirror headband aside and began to ride you, she noticed your eyes filling with tears. She leaned down–without stopping what the lower half of her body was doing– and in between licks of your face, whispered “Are you OK? Am I hurting you?”
You were outside your body, floating up to the ceiling, watching this happen as though it wasn’t you. “I’m just so happy,” your mouth said.