Having a pornstar for a boyfriend

Let’s peruse The ol’ electronic inbox, shall we?

Here’s a note from someone named Tammy, subject line: “Your irresponsible attitude.” Delete!

Another missive: “I can’t believe no one has called you on your sexist bullshit.”

Oh lady-loo, whoever you are, you can do better than a facile “sexist.” Delete!

Browse, browse, browse. There’s gotta be something here worth our time.

Ah, a note from Don! Don eats ass better than a starving pig let loose at a trough. I’ve lost count of how many hours he’s spent down there. Perhaps he’s writing to inform me that he’s hungry.

“Hey Shaun. I was in the Stag Shop on Church St today and saw a replica of your boyfriend’s cock. I was tempted to buy it but was hoping you could let me know if it’s a true-to-life replica.”

Hmmm, Don will not buy my pornstar boyfriend’s cock unless he is assured from the horse’s mouth (or, in this case, the horse’s hole) that the facsimile is comparable vis-à-vis the real-life version that must be plowing the hole he has eaten out so many times.

Sex is, as we know, a mental thing and Don wants to get off on the twisted authenticity of it all. Pig.

As time marches on I’m accepting what appears to be fairly standard territory for those in relationships with very popular pornstars. My man is not your run-of-the-mill porn star, as in I have-a homemade video up on YouJizz. He’s a pornstar as in international exclusive to Chi Chi La Rue, highest paid in that stable, legions of devoted fans who collect him, covers of magazines around the world, massive poster of him above the front cash counter at Priape in Montreal, stupid numbers of friends on his Twitter and Facebook pages and, of course, the aforementioned dildo on shelves now kind of pornstar.

The other day lover boy and I were at our local video store deciding which Jennifer Aniston movie to choose and he pointed to a separate room.

“What movies are in there?” he asked.

“It’s all porn,” I told him. “You can rent yourself.”

“Cunt,” he called me.

I first interviewed him when he was still Los Angeles-based, there was a sweet connection. When he came back here to his home country to start his own online porn studio, he looked me up. One thing led to another, here we are.

It’s an interesting experience, one that I am grateful is happening now that I’m 41 and in solid alignment with myself. It’s especially sweet because I am a guy who is used to getting his own fair share of attention on his own whorish merits: good looks plus slutty.

I haven’t actually watched any of my boyfriend’s porn and plan to keep it that way for now. But an alarming number of men on the street sure seem to have studied the oeuvre.

When other guys pass by us, there’s something more than just attraction to his natural good looks. As they cruise him — or trance on him in an is-it-really-you? kind of way — they ignore me completely like I’m a hobbit. I’m treated to a mental picture of the cruiser of the moment jacking himself to my boyfriend’s legendary on-camera sexcapades. Trust me, it’s not always the prettiest visual to pop into your head when you’re doing your Saturday shop.

It’s not just strangers either. During the Toronto International Film Festival I attended Gay Flambé without the boyfriend. My friend Jared found me and announced he’d just watched my boyfriend fuck in “the one where he’s tied up in the closet.”

Charmed. Excuse me, there’s a line in the bathroom with my name on it.

Of course, there are some amazing upsides to this experience. It’s not all feeling like Bobby Brown to his Whitney. If you’ve ever wondered if pornstars are fun fucks when the cameras aren’t rolling, I can assure you in this case he is. And I wouldn’t necessarily have thought so.

I’m nine years older, so you’d think (or at least I did) my hard-earned full bag of tricks would balance out the I-did-this-for-a-living-for-years factor. Nope. Turns out having shot dozens of porn scenes still wins, indicators include the inventive way he can toss and twist my tree-trunk legs around to get at what he wants, at once hysterical and impressive. But that’s telling tales out of the boudoir, obviously you can watch him in action any time you want.

Back to today’s mail. Reply: “Dear Don. You may purchase my boyfriend’s plastic cock with my guarantee it’s pretty much what I’m riding these days. Enjoy that knowledge in the pervy way I know you will. I’m just not sure I need to hear about it. And please don’t shake my hand next time we meet.”