Don't have Mexican for dinner if you’re planning on having sex with a pornstar

April 29, 2019

This tale begins like many others in my life: on a dating app. I was lazing in bed half watching a film, half scrolling through a bevy of men on Bumble. Next to me was a half-eaten sandwich and a cold cup of tea. I was in my underwear, but not in a sexy way. I was having what I like to call a ‘sloth afternoon’.

 

 

Mid-chew through a terrible choice of sandwich (chicken and tuna, who the fuck am I?) I saw a familiar face swipe onto my screen. At first I couldn’t quite place him. It took a few more thoughtful chews of terrible sandwich before it clicked. It was Dean Johnson*, or at least someone pretending to be him. Obviously, I swiped right.

 

I recognised DJ as one of Australia’s leading male pornstars. When I relayed this to my friends they took the obvious route: “Oh, you recognised him did you? Is that from all the porn you watch? You big, horny porn machine.”

 

The truth is much more vanilla than that. Personally, I’m not much of a porn girl – no judgment to those who are. Maybe you’re reading this article in one tab while another houses a video of someone being ploughed by the poolside. Power to you. But I’m more likely to be turned on by a colour coded bookshelf or an episode of ‘Tidying up with Marie Kondo’.

 

I recognised DJ from a few articles and documentaries – he’d recently done the media circuit to death. I guess that’s a great way to drum up customers. Even I, a porn novice, recognised his chiseled features.

 

After a few hours and another terrible sandwich was shoved down my gullet, I received a comforting ping from my phone: “DJ has liked you back!”

 

This is when I started to become a Doubtful Debbie. I’d never had much luck matching with ‘hot guys’ on these apps before. The ones who dig my style are usually the softly spoken Scrabble champions, the kind of guys who wear skinny jeans and glasses that may or may not be real. So why would this man, someone who is paid to be beautiful and have sex with people for the pleasure of thousands, be interested in me?

 

We started chatting and I plied him with questions. If this was indeed someone masking as DJ then surely they’d slip up sooner or later. After a few hours of small talk bullshit, I still didn’t quite believe it was him, but I was happy to play along with the fantasy.

 

Then he popped that fantasy bubble by sending me a message I’d become familiar with from other Bumble encounters: ‘What are you doing later? Wanna meet up for a drink?’ (read: bang fest). This was it. I was either about to enter a sexual oasis or be murdered at the hands of a very charming catfish.

 

I was going out with friends the night of my first conversation with DJ. “I can’t believe you’re going to fuck a pornstar tonight,” my friend said as she smeared more makeup over my face. The news of my pending sexual encounter caused us both to realise I needed to up my face game. This was also going to mark the end of a three month dry spell for me; what a way to break the drought.

 

The rest of the evening is a blur. We drank a lot of cheap wine, I did a lot of nervous wees and at around 1am I got another message from DJ.

 

“I’m caught up with a client, sorry. Let’s reschedule?”

 

I should mention that DJ is also a male escort, so when he says he’s “caught up with a client”, what I heard was, “I’m having sex with someone that isn’t you.” My clit boner instantly softened.

 

‘Whatever’, I thought. ‘There’s no way I’ll hear from him again’. I kept drinking cocktails and dancing with my friends, all the while with a hunk of disappointment resting on my heart.

 

A few days passed and surprisingly the small talk with DJ continued. A rare man of his word. Who was this guy? We kept making vague plans to meet up for coffee or breakfast, which neither of us honoured, and eventually conversation became stale.

 

‘Fuck this’, I thought. I’m not going to make plans with him anymore. Also, I was sick of Bumble. It was draining all of my energy and I didn’t feel good about myself when I was on it. I resolved that I’d delete the app, but not without one final attempt to resuscitate the spark with DJ.

 

"I was either about to enter a sexual oasis or be murdered at the hands of a very charming catfish."

 

I texted him: “I’m deleting Bumble. Here’s my number if you ever want to get in touch….” and with that, I deleted the yellow app from my screen. I was liberated. I was free. I was… definitely going to bring it back down from the Cloud again on some lonely Friday night. But for now, I was doing alright.

 

Fast forward two weeks and I’m making plans to meet up with an old friend from university. I hadn’t seen this friend in months and I made a point of reiterating my presence that evening.

 

‘Can’t wait to see you, I’ll bring ingredients to make guac!’ I texted. In what felt like seconds later, I got a text from an unknown number. ‘Hey, it’s DJ from Bumble. Do you wanna come over tonight?’

 

It was a random Wednesday night and I was faced with an ethical dilemma. Ditch my friend for a night of what I knew would be passionate sex with a pornstar or risk losing out on the only sex invitation I’d received in months? I decided to be a good chick and went to my friend’s place for dinner. Besides, I still didn’t know if this guy was actually DJ.

 

I spilled the beans over burritos with my mates. I told them that I was thinking of going to DJ’s place after dinner. After all, it was most definitely a booty call he was after, why treat it as anything else?

 

My mates were totally on board. They prepped me on what to say, how to act and made me promise to pass all details onto them the following day. As I was cleaning off my third burrito stuffed with creamy fillings and topped with loads of cheese, my friend pointed out a potential problem.

 

“Aren’t you lactose intolerant?”

 

Hmmm… indeed I am. But I’m one of those lactose sensitive folk who most definitely doesn’t take their intolerance seriously. I’d rather give myself a stomach ache or be on the verge of shitting my pants than give up dairy, but perhaps I hadn’t really thought this one through.

 

Now, I feel it’s important that I stop leading you down the garden path here because I can guess what you’re thinking. No, I did not shit myself during sex with a pornstar (wow, that would have been a great way to end this story), but boy did I need to.

 

On the drive over to his house (yes, I did it sober. Proud?), stomach gurgling, I had so many questions running through my mind. Was it really going to be him? Where would we do it? Am I safe to meet up with a stranger without having drinks first? Does he expect me to pay him? If so, how much did something like this cost? And would he warn me beforehand so I could politely decline the paid version and opt for a free trial instead: just hand stuff?

 

This brought me to my biggest question. Why would he want to have sex with me? I had a variety of theories. My strongest was that I was being Punk’d. I thought Ashton Kutcher was bound to emerge from behind a bush any moment, arrogantly screaming: “You thought HE wanted to have sex with YOU? Haha, that’s hiLARious! This was a joke, girl! YOU’VE BEEN PUNK’D!”

 

My friends had a much kinder theory. “He probably just wanted to have ‘real sex’ with someone and not have to perform for the cameras.”

 

That, or he was a total sex addict. Either way, I was going to get mine.

 

I made it to his house and asked him to meet me outside. It really was him. Part of me was surprised, part was relieved, and all of me was suddenly very, very horny. I knew there and then that I was going to have the best story to tell at parties: I fucked a pornstar.

 

"My strongest was that I was being Punk’d. I thought Ashton Kutcher was bound to emerge from behind a bush any moment, arrogantly screaming: “You thought HE wanted to have sex with YOU? Haha, that’s hiLARious!"

 

I bring up the Mexican food because it was a constant reminder throughout the evening that I was way out of my depth. We made flirty conversation for an hour or so in his lounge room and every time I made a suggestive comment or brushed my leg against his, I could feel my stomach twisting in knots. Not from nerves, but from the dickhead dairy floating around in my lower intestine. My burrito was a reality check. If my friends really were right and he was looking to have ‘real sex’ (whatever that means) with a ‘real girl’ then it doesn’t get much more real than fucking a girl who’s holding in a bunch of farts.

 

Eventually my fears were alleviated as my stomach settled and I managed not to shit myself. Hurrah! We had great sex then we hung about in bed for a while, picking up on our pre-coital conversation. Where did you grow up? What’s it like being a male escort? If you were on a deserted island for a year… blah, blah, blah. And then, it was all over.

 

This happened in 2017 and for some reason this is the first time I’ve written about it. I’m someone who shares a lot of my personal life on the internet and this was most definitely my sexual peak of the year (read: my life), so I wasn’t really sure what was holding me back.

 

"If my friends really were right and he was looking to have ‘real sex’ (whatever that means) with a ‘real girl’ then it doesn’t get much more real than fucking a girl who’s holding in a bunch of farts."

 

 

It didn’t really come to me until I decided I wanted to pen this story anonymously. At first I told myself it was because the idea of Aunty Susan (or even worse, my Grandma) reading about my sexual escapades with a male sex worker literally caused my soul to self-combust. While this is true, I realised it wasn’t really their judgment I was worried about.

 

It was fear of the stigma still attached to sex work. I’m scared that a prospective employer might one day look me up, read about the time I fucked a porn star and then immediately strike me from their list. It’s not right, but it's real.

 

I’d love to use this story as a humble brag, and in my social circles I certainly do, but even in 2019 there are many people who still aren’t prepared to hear this anecdote without judgment towards me for having sex with a pornstar (or for having casual sex at all), or without judging DJ for his chosen career path.

 

From what I can take from our conversations that evening, DJ is really, really happy with the choice he made. He felt like he was slowly sinking in his previous career – a ‘regular’ suit and tie 9-5 gig – and this job allows him to live a lifestyle that filled up his soul to the brim. How many of us can say the same?

 

When I got home that night, the first thing I did was look up DJ online. Not to read more articles about him or to watch his documentary again, but to check out some of his porn. I guess I am a porn girl now, but not in the way I thought I’d be. As I laid in bed watching him pound some hot actress against a couch cushion, I realised that she too is a ‘real girl’ having ‘real sex’ with a ‘real guy’ and chances are, she’s probably holding in a fart too.

 

*Name has been changed.

 

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