Double Love

Chapter 15: Stepping Up

Melanie

The firestorm only intensified, raging hotter as word spread that I had a double life as a porn star. Lauren and I stopped by a bar one night to grab some dinner and as soon as we walked in a girl eyed us and rushed over to her friends. They sniggered and looked over at me while speaking in hushed tones.

I felt so awful.

“Lauren,” I whispered. “This is embarrassing. Those people,” I whispered shame-faced, “they’re talking about me.”

“Do you want to go?” she whispered back. “We don’t have to stay.”

But it would be like this no matter where we went. So instead I held my head up and walked through the restaurant, sliding into a booth by the window.

That was a huge mistake. Everyone in the restaurant literally craned their heads to get a look at me. Plus, passerby could see me through the big glass window as they walked outside, doing double takes when they realized who I was. One guy even stopped in his tracks, pointing me out to his friends before laughing nastily.

Then there were the comments themselves. When our burgers came, the waitress asked silkily, “Aren’t you that girl? You’re so skinny when you’re naked. Where do all the calories go?”

I cringed inside. In the video I’d been a healthy, curvy woman but I’d lost weight recently due to stress. My figure was now like a rail because I was unable to eat, and unable to focus on anything but the tragedy of my life. I felt ugly, inside out.

Even more upsetting, it seemed that comments about my body were fair game now, even if they were disguised at compliments. Just the other day a woman I didn’t even know said, “Love that outfit, the color suits your bush down there.”

I’d stood stock still, my face burning, unable to even put together a response. The woman had merely giggled before running off with her friends. I was left dying inside with tears in my eyes. How can people be so cruel? I wanted to do nothing but go home. But that’s the problem. Where was home now? My life has gone completely to s**t ever since the news hit the papers. My dorm room’s not home, and I can’t live with my mom either because she’s a mess from this whole thing.

“Melly,” Noreen cried into the phone. “Why did you do it? You know I have some money saved. I could have helped you with tuition.”

“No, Ma,” I said quietly. “Don’t you remember our last conversation? With Sam in the Army now, you asked if there was some way I could get a part time job, remember?”

“But Melly,” sobbed my mom. “I didn’t mean for you to go into the adult entertainment industry. I never meant for you to sell your body. It’s now how I raised you,” she choked.

I felt really sad. “I know Mom. You did the best you could. But I didn’t want to burden you, and forty-six thousand a year is way more than we can afford. I didn’t see any other way.”

“Oh Melly,” sobbed my mom again. “What are we going to do?”

I didn’t say anything. There were no answers after all, and it was all I could do to try and survive day to day.

I want to say that I was strong, and that I soldiered on stolidly, putting on a brave face while going to class. But the truth is after a week of torture, I requested academic leave from Trinity. Again, another blow to my dreams. I’m not sure when or how I’m going to finish my degree now, which has always been a goal of mine. Plus, without a degree, how am I going to get a job? Doors were slamming shut in my face, right and left.

Even worse, I’ve been inundated by interview requests of the wrong kind. Journalists ask the most intrusive, degrading questions, and it’s as if nothing is off-limits anymore.

“Do you think you’re being exploited?” asked one nasty woman, her nose like a hooked beak. “What is it like being the face of teenage promiscuity?”

“Can I take a look at your ID myself? I just want to verify your age for the paper,” said a graying old journalist.

The questions babbled on in my head even after I left the scene. To be honest, I’m thinking about giving a candid interview just to correct some of the falsehoods. People immediately think that I was abused as a child. They think I was molested, and then locked in dark closets for long hours. How do I explain that my mom worked hard to raise me right, and that the porn is in no way a reflection of her parenting skills?

God, I was exhausted just thinking about it. So very, very tired. Sometimes I feel Melanie fading into the distance and my porn star persona slowly taking over, overshadowing everything that I used to be. People call me “Trinity” occasionally, and I find myself answering questions as her.

“Trinity, what do you think about double-teaming? Do you think women are abused when they do double penetration?”

I was fatigued but at the same time so angry. It’s hard to explain. On the one hand, I was ashamed that I’d gone down the adult entertainment path, but on the other, my subconscious knew that I had to own this turn of events. After all, anyone who’s ever watched X-rated stuff knows that there are performers who love DP. The girls are usually squealing as they’re sandwiched, savoring the double-stuff in their p***y and ass. So my reply was direct and straightforward.

“No, women in porn agree to a scene beforehand,” I said firmly. “No producer would spring DP on an actress. Remember, she gets paid a bonus for taking two, so there’s no surprise. It’s all built into the script.”

“A script?” laughed the reporter disbelievingly. “There are no lines in the film I watched.”

I kept my face resolute. What a jerk. But it wasn’t over yet.

“Trinity,” asked another reporter. “Are you making enough to cover your tuition now? Forty-six thousand a year is a lot.”

That was the other big angle to the story. How increasing student debt burdens had forced an Ivy League student to sell her body. I wasn’t sure what to say in response to that question because it was basically true, so I decided to dodge instead.

“I’m sorry,” I replied sweetly. “But my financial situation is none of your business. Don’t you know? It’s rude to ask someone’s salary,” I said. “How would you like it if I asked how much you make?”

“Seventy-five thousand before taxes,” he replied stoutly, not missing a beat. “So how about it? Answer the question, honey bun, you know we’ll find out anyways.”

“No can do,” I replied with a freezing smile. “But I’ll let you know the next time I have a new release.”

Because I wanted to take control of the narrative. Things had spun so out of control. There were so many lies and rumors about me which made me feel sad, in addition to violated and outraged. I needed to regain control of my life and maybe the solution was to throw myself into the lion’s den. After all, I was already at its edges. Why not go in all the way and control my own destiny?