So why is he gazing at me as though he’s never seen anything like me before? Why am I certain no one will ever see me this wholly again?
In an effort to break the delicious tension, I ask, “Am I late?”
“Nope. I’m early,” and he’s still looking at me like he could devour me, and the air in the shop is stifling, and my clothes feel heavy and tight, and I’m not sure how I’ll make it through a minute with him, let alone a whole afternoon, and then it’s our turn at the register, and he finally breaks his gaze and I can breathe again.
He orders first then gestures to me. I order my usual black Americano and give the barista my name. Logan pays then we step aside in unison to wait while our drinks are prepared.
Logan stuffs his hands in his pockets and gives me a curious glance. “So you go by Devi all the time?”
“Well, it’s my name.”
“For real? You changed it legally or…?”
“It’s what my parents named me. They’re sort of hippies.” That’s an understatement, but I don’t want to scare him away on the first date.
Then again, maybe it’s best to be upfront. “Okay, they’re actual hippies. No sort of about it. They believe in self-fulfilling prophecy—they name things what they want them to be.”
“They wanted you to be a porn star?”
“They wanted me to be a goddess.”
“So, yes.” He waits for me to laugh before saying, “But Dare can’t be your last name.”
I shake my head. “It’s not. It’s short for Daryani. My full name is Devi Arezu Daryani.” I’ve gone through periods of both pride and shame at having such a Middle Eastern name. I love that it’s unique and exotic, but the stereotyping that comes with it, notsomuch. I’ve had racial slurs slung at me on more than one occasion—everything from camel jockey to mosquito to nightclub bomber. Airport security is always a pain in the ass. I swear I’m on a permanent watch list, pulled aside for additional searching every damn time.
But when I deliver my whole name to Logan, I say it with dignity. It’s impossible not to feel self-respect with him. Even when his eyes wander to other parts of my body, he seems to be intently interested in what I have to say.
“What does Arezu mean?” He pronounces it pretty well for having heard it so quickly—ah-REH-Zaw—and the sound of him saying a part of my name that no one typically even attempts gives me goose bumps. I wish he’d say it again and again. Wish he’d say it in a more intimate setting. Wish I could hear him growl it and groan it and make it his own.
“It means ‘longed for.’”
“How appropriate,” he says quietly, and since he has no idea the struggle my parents went through to have me, the series of miscarriages and fertility rituals, I have to assume he’s flirting, and I look away, suddenly warm.
“You know why I picked O’Toole for my name?”
I turn back to him. “Why?”
“Because I have plenty of O’Toole.”
“How appropriate,” I say, because it’s funny and because I want him to know I didn’t miss it when he said it.
The smile he gives me makes me ache in places I shouldn’t be thinking about in public.
So I don’t think about them. “Is Logan your birth name?”
“Nope.”
“Then what is it?”
He stretches past me to grab the two coffee cups from the barista. “I’ll never tell.”
I realize he’s serious about not telling when he immediately dives into another subject as he leads me to a sitting area in the back corner of the shop. “Hippies, huh? Then they’re cool with your line of work?”
I take a seat in a wicker chair. “They’re cooler than cool. They support me in everything I do as ‘long as I’m happy and fulfilled.’ Which is nice.” I recognize how contrary my tone is, and I’m compelled to expand. “Just, I sometimes think it would be nicer if they would be more parent-y and told me what to do instead.”
Logan’s brow rises as he sits across from me and sets our drinks down on the table between us. “What to do about what?”
“I don’t know. Anything. Everything. My career. School. My life.” Listening to myself, I realize how young I am or how much older Logan is, and suddenly I feel awkward and immature. “Maybe I’m just not very good at adulting.”
“Oh, adulting is terrible. I recommend only doing it when absolutely necessary. Like when you’re out of clean clothes or when you’re trying to decide whether or not to put on a condom. Beyond that, leave the adulting to adults.”
I grin as I tilt my head to study him. “Strange that someone with that philosophy would choose to go into the adult film business.”
“But that’s a misnomer. Porn is the least adult-y line of work there is, except for maybe, say, clowning.”
“Such respect for your job,” I laugh. “Do you even like what you do?”
“Are you kidding me? I fucking love it. Pun intended.”
I take a sip of my coffee, enjoying how easy the conversation is. I’ve watched pretty much every Logan O’Toole video out there—interviews and candid conversations as well as his porns. And while I realized he was charming, it’s a lot different having his charm directed at me. It feels strangely intimate, more intimate than having his lips on my privates, and I want to explore this intimacy as long as he’ll let me. “What do you love about it? Besides the fucking, I mean.”