Dirty Thirty Read online

  I often wonder how many more of these first encounters I have left. As someone who had already done a good amount sexually, who was now married, how much was there really left for me? It’s something that doesn’t keep me up at night, but once in a while when I’m feeling particularly moody, it makes me kind of sad. Most of the time, I make myself feel better by ordering a pizza and turning on a crime show, thinking how lucky I am to have such mundane problems. I could be a serial murderer, my latest victim on the verge of being discovered by the police. On top of that I could be a parent, and it would be revealed to my children that I’m a demon. What if my fetish was not only to kill, but to kill small children? After raping them. It would make me a number-one target for anal rape in prison. (In this anti-fantasy, I am also...shudder...a man.) Sometimes when I thought of how much worse my life could be, it put things into perspective.

  Closing my eyes and leaning my head against the window, I thought about how hot it would be to fuck Keith. There probably wouldn’t be that many different options, position-wise, but that was okay. I usually didn’t like to be on top, but this would be different. Did his dick work? Maybe he used Caverject, which was a solution that was injected into the base of an impotent penis—I only knew about this because some of the guys in porn used it. Or maybe his dick worked just fine, and I was being ignorant? Who knew? And what would I tell Toni? Outside of porn, we were monogamous—fucking Keith would definitely constitute cheating, which I had never even considered doing in the two years we had been married.

  As usual, my mind was escaping logic. The man had merely asked me to sit next to him—not to actually fuck him. Maybe he was married. Maybe he was gay, just a fan of the wit I displayed on my Twitter feed (keep dreaming!). Maybe his dick didn’t even work, after all. I let out a sigh and went to sleep.

  When I awoke, we were already landing. I grabbed my mirror out of my purse, and made sure I looked presentable. I explained to Bill the situation as best I could.

  “What? He’s in a wheelchair? On a plane?”

  I punched Bill in his arm. “Don’t be weird about it.” I stood up as the seatbelt light went off, leaving Bill still seated with a confused look on his face. Looking over the seats in front of me, I spotted Keith. He was definitely as cute as I remembered.

  When it was my turn to exit, I walked up to his seat. He was in the front row of the plane. I squeezed myself into the space between his legs and the wall.

  “Hi, I’m Asa,” I introduced myself.

  “I’m Keith. I’m a big fan,” he smiled and shook my hand. He didn’t seem to have any trouble lifting his arm, but when I took his hand, it definitely felt unlike a normal hand...it felt stiff.

  “This is my friend Bill,” I introduced. Bill shook his hand and looked at me as they touched. I pretended not to notice.

  “This is my assistant Roberto,” Keith nodded to the man sitting next to him. Roberto nodded back, without saying a word. “Get up, let her sit down,” he said in what I took as a rude tone. Roberto did as he said, and I sat down apologizing, embarrassed.

  “Can I meet you at baggage claim?” I asked Bill. He looked relieved that I gave him an out. Taking our bags, he left as Roberto took a seat on the other side of the aisle.

  “So where are you coming from?”

  “A dance gig in Seattle, you?”

  “I was at a charity event. Have you ever fucked a guy in a wheelchair?”

  I was taken aback by his bluntness; I didn’t think the conversation would go there quite so soon. But I stayed seated. “No,” I answered. I tried not to smile, but my face failed me.

  “It works, you know. I’m trying to get sponsored by Viagra. I take one of those things, and it’s a party.” He was dead serious. He wasn’t even smiling.

  “Yeah?” I couldn’t think of anything else to say. The whole thing was moving too fast—yes, I had already decided this man was fuck-worthy, and yes, he answered the very question I had been pondering, but I thought maybe we would exchange numbers and pretend to be friends first. Besides, I needed time to think of what I would tell Toni. Or would I even tell him at all?

  “You know Roxanne?” He suddenly asked. “She’s in your line of work.”

  “Roxanne Summers?”

  “Yeah her. I used to mess around with her. You can ask her, she’ll give me a good review.” Everything he was saying was wrong. He was coming on way too strong, and already namedropping other porn girls he had slept with? It was so not my style, but somehow it really worked for him. Or maybe I was blinded by the prospect of having another “first.” Or maybe it was the grey hoodie. All I could think about was what it would be like to fuck him, and would it be totally wrong of me? How mad would Toni be? Maybe I could convince him somehow that it was something I just needed to get out of my system, which was pretty much how I got anything I ever wanted. Or maybe...maybe I could keep this a secret. Would my conscience allow that?

  As if he were reading my mind, he asked, “Is that something you’d wanna try?”

  I paused. “Well, the thing is, I’m married.” I already felt better about myself.

  “That’s okay,” he smiled. “I have a fiancée.”

  I couldn’t hide the shock on my face, my jaw dropped. What? This man was engaged to be married, and he was hitting on a porn star on a plane?

  “So,” he continued, “I’ll have to keep it a secret too.”

  “I don’t know,” I thought out loud. “It’s something I’m definitely intrigued by. But I’ve never cheated on my husband.” As the words came out of my mouth, I couldn’t help but notice it sounded like a lie. Probably because usually when I started a sentence with the words I’ve never, it usually was a lie.

  A flight attendant came up to us. I looked around and noticed the plane was empty.

  “We’re ready for you, sir,” she smiled.

  Keith looked annoyed. “Alright,” he answered. Without thanking her, he turned to Roberto. “Pay attention,” he snapped at him, and turned back to me. “Well it’s something to think about. So do you live in LA?”

  “I do,” I answered. “I grew up in New York, but I live here now. What about you?”

  As Keith told me about growing up in California, Roberto came over and in one swoop, picked Keith up like a baby. Keith continued talking to me over Roberto’s shoulders, but I couldn’t focus—I was too concerned with acting natural.

  Just keep looking at his face, keep looking at his face, I chanted to myself as we walked off the plane, Keith in Roberto’s arms.

  Once he was settled in his wheelchair, we made the long walk through the airport together. Keith used his arms to wheel himself, and again I wondered exactly which parts of his body he had control over. We made the small talk I hated so much, and I was happy to reunite with Bill when we arrived at baggage claim.

  “Can I get a picture?” Keith asked once my luggage had come out.

  “Of course,” I smiled.

  “Here dude, make sure it’s not blurry,” he said, giving his phone to Roberto. “He sucks at taking photos,” Keith informed me.

  We took the photo, and Keith asked me for my number. Still unsure of where I would take this, I gave him my email address—the one I used for work. Both of my email accounts forwarded straight to my phone, but I felt less guilty giving him the business one, the one I was looser with.

  “What the hell was that?” Bill asked as soon as we got into his car.

  “I don’t know,” I laughed. “I kind of want to fuck him.”

  “You know you’re married, right?” Bill exclaimed. “And that’s the guy you’d wanna cheat with?”

  “You’re such an asshole!” I gave Bill a punch in the arm. “Just ’cause he’s in a wheelchair?”

  “No,” Bill said with a bewildered look. “That guy was a total dick.”

  Bill was right. In the short time I had spent with Keith, I had noticed more than a few red flags—but I was consciously ignoring them.

  “Oh, and he’s engaged,” I remembered aloud. “Isn’t that crazy? There’s no hope. He’s proof that all men cheat. That dude is a quadriplegic, and he still cheats.”

  “So he is a quad?” Bill asked. “When I shook his hand, it was like a dead fish.”

  “Don’t be a dick,” I told Bill, but secretly agreed with the comparison.

  “And where does this guy even live? Where would you fuck him?”

  “He lives in Santa Monica. And I’d probably have to go to him. I mean...he’s not coming to my house. I’m married!”

  “So basically you mean I’d drive you to Santa Monica, wait in the car while you fuck this wheelchair dude, and drive you back?”

  “I guess. I wonder if the sex would be good.”

  “Probably not as good as you’re fantasizing.”

  I looked down at my phone. I had a new email. It was from Keith.

  “Oh my god, he just emailed me!” I jumped in my seat.

  “How does he even type?” Bill asked as I shushed him, reading the email.

  “It was nice meeting you, I’d love to see you soon,” I read out loud.

  We rode in silence for a bit, and I thought about his fiancée. Had he ever been caught cheating? How long had they been together? My grandfather was paralyzed by a stroke shortly after I was born, and my grandmother had taken care of him for over twenty years before he died.

  “Do you think she wipes his ass?” I asked Bill.

  As if he had been thinking the same thing, he answered right away with another question. “Can you imagine how she must feel, getting cheated on by a man whose ass she has to wipe?”

  “I can’t even,” I replied in horror.

  When we arrived at my house, I got out of the car, still unresolved on whether I would reply to Keith’s email or no
t. Driving away, Bill yelled, “Don’t be stupid!”

  I walked into the house to find Toni playing a video game on the sofa.

  “Hi Ashka,” he paused his game to give me a kiss. Hearing the nickname exclusive to my husband made me feel immediately guilty. “How was your flight?”

  “There was a fan in a wheelchair,” I blurted out. I hadn’t planned on saying anything about Keith, but it came out of my mouth before I could do anything about it.

  “Ah,” Toni grinned. “Let me guess, you wanted to fuck him.”

  I started to laugh uncontrollably. I wanted to deny it, but I couldn’t—I felt I was caught red-handed, even though I hadn’t even really done anything. Toni knew me too well—to think I could get away with cheating was a joke. To think I’d even want to cheat on a man who knew me so well, and still loved me, was all of a sudden completely absurd. Everything I had been turning over and over in my mind for the past few hours melted away.

  “I swear, he was so hot!” I screamed, as I gave Toni a big hug. “But he was SUCH an asshole!”

  Toni sighed, smiling. “Ahh, my wife is such a slut.”

  Here was a man, who knew me more than anybody—more than I gave him credit for. He knew my thought process, he knew how much I thought about fucking everybody that came into my path—and yet, he trusted me enough to know that I wouldn’t.

  Snuggling into his chest, I felt like the luckiest girl in the world.

  I never wrote Keith back (again, sounds like a lie but it isn’t) and he still emails me now and again. Although I never reply, I always open it and think about what it would be like to fuck him. And then I get on with my day.

  HAIKU

  Zero cavities

  Two abortions, One divorce

  Thirty years on earth

  Death by H

  “Heroin is the most key ingredient to the plan.”

  “True. And industrialized food. Like Ben and Jerry’s.”

  “I also want to spend all my money. Every last cent.”

  “Asa. I do not want to die with one penny.”

  “Maybe even go into debt. So where are we gonna do it again? Or are we gonna travel?”

  “The city!”

  “But it’s so cold...”

  “Yeah but it’s our spot. Plus we don’t have to go outside.” “Right, right, we can just get everything delivered. Like a hundred percent of the time.”

  “It’s lazy-friendly. And if Earl is still alive, he can sell us the H.”

  “Yeah, it’s perfect. I’m gonna try to get as rich as possible. So we can get more drugs and food.”

  “I don’t think I’m gonna be rich. I mean I’m still trying to be independent.”

  “Don’t worry, I’m sure we’ll have enough.”

  “I’ll never stop trying though. But I won’t marry for money. Actually, I won’t marry at all.”

  “Marrying for money is overrated.”

  “I would marry a doctor for prescriptions.”

  “Hmm, not a bad idea. Cause marrying a dealer would be too much drama.”

  “Actually, I would totally marry a doctor. It would be a Jay-Z/ Beyoncé type of marriage.”

  “How long should we go for?”

  “Maybe a five-year-plan. I don’t know. Are five amazing years better than twenty mediocre ones? Maybe not. But getting old must suck so badly. There’s definitely an appeal to dying young. Though, I think I’d make an amazing old person.”

  “A twenty-year plan is too long.”

  “No, twenty years is not a plan—it’s just life. Five years would be the plan.”

  “Ha, right. Well I think five great years is better than twenty mediocre for sure.”

  “I think this may be a way to maximize life. Just be very rational. Look at life like an Excel sheet.”

  “Do you think five years is even too long?”

  “Maybe. Maybe one year is better. A one-year suicide plan could be great.”

  Some years ago, my best friend Dee and I made a decision. When the time was right, we would take a to-be-determined amount of time to kill ourselves slowly via heroin. Every few months or so, we revisited the idea, adding things and tweaking it to make it the best plan possible. With every celebrity death, we learned something new: Anna Nicole Smith taught us not to mix benzos with our opiates until we were absolutely ready to die; Michael Jackson taught us that even pedophilia could be overshadowed by untimely death; David Carradine taught us never to masturbate with belts around our necks, because whether people perceived it as a suicide or an accident, it would be equally humiliating. Our plan wasn’t something created out of depression, or even a desire for death—it was likely more something born of two control freaks so afraid of painful death and illness, we never even dared speak the C-word aloud. And if that did happen— terminal illness, I mean—the plan would obviously be expedited.

  Growing up, the first person we ever knew to die in real life, aside from the likes of grandparents and other old relatives, was Chris. Coincidentally, it was due to a heroin overdose. Chris went to school with Dee, and while he wasn’t necessarily a part of our group, he came around once every couple of weeks. He was a pothead during the week and did harder drugs on the weekends—just like the rest of us—until one day, when we were seniors in high school, he decided to become a junkie. At that age, none of us had every even considered doing anything harder than cocaine—we did ecstasy, acid, mushrooms, special K, salvia, even the occasional angel dust—but never, ever crack or heroin. In our minds, those drugs were for the homeless. So when one day, Kevin (my ex-boyfriend, who happened to be living with Chris at the time) told us Chris had told him he was going to become a heroin addict, we didn’t believe him.

  “I swear, he fucking told me he’s gonna become a junkie!” Kevin had claimed, but we were sure he was mistaken. Who consciously became addicted to heroin? The very idea was ridiculous.

  The next week, Chris came over to Jules’s house, where Dee and I had practically lived during our high school years. “Watch,” Kevin had told us before he came over—and watch we did. After an hour or so of smoking weed and sitting around Jules’s Tribeca triplex, Chris went to the bathroom—for an incredibly long time, probably almost an hour (although, it’s hard to tell because I’ve never been great with the concept of time when I’m high). We sat around and lazily told the others to go check on him, until eventually Jules slowly walked toward the bathroom, sighing with each step. When he came back out a few minutes later, he had a look of disgust on his face.

  “Yo, he’s just nodding out up there,” he explained. “There’s literally a needle on the floor.”

  Chris eventually came back to the living room to join us, and we spent the rest of the evening observing him, judging him, and giving each other wide-eyed looks. We couldn’t believe this was someone we knew, our friend even. His head nodded up and down as he fell in and out of sleep; when he spoke to us, he would turn his head in our direction, but his eyes would always remain closed. When we went to the stairwell to smoke, his cigarette just hung between his fingers, burning down without him ever taking a puff. I felt sad for him, but at the same time, I couldn’t deny he looked like he was having the time of his life, on the inside.

  Less than a year later, Chris overdosed. His brother found him on the floor of his apartment. Kevin had already moved out by then, and Chris was living alone. It rocked our worlds. We felt we were too young to know a dead person our age. “There’s nothing like being young and seeing death,” Jules’s father had told us. We nodded in silence, unable to express our feelings—instead, we smoked more weed and wrote our own names over and over on pieces of paper for over an hour. At his funeral, I couldn’t even look his parents in the eyes. I silently vowed to never do heroin.

  Years later, after I had already started porn, after everyone else had graduated college, after Dee had dated him for two years, Kevin died. It was the morning of my first shoot with Mandingo; I had just prepped my asshole and taken a shower when I got the call—Kevin had overdosed. By then, we all had seen more people in our lives pass, some of us had even lost parents—but Kevin was, and to this day still is, the only one of our group to die. We all handled it in different ways—it’s hard to say who took it the hardest. Dee and Kevin had only broken up a few months before, and had he stayed alive, they probably would have been on-again-off-again for at least a few more years. She hasn’t seriously dated anyone since, and I don’t blame her. Jules knew Kevin the longest, since they were in kindergarten—they even lived under the same roof a few times, and it was possible Kevin was closer to Jules than his own brother. Kevin’s death was the only time I’d ever seen Jules cry. As for me, Kevin was my first love. We dated for four years in high school, and when I found out about his death, I went the classic Asian route of denial, moving on to shoot a killer anal scene with Mandingo that day. Then again, maybe it wasn’t so classically Asian.