How to Love a Porn Star

How to Love a Porn Star

First.
Foremost:
Understand 

she can never be yours.

Even though she owns

your heart,

undoubtedly & irrevocably,

she will always belong

to everyone else,

to her co-stars,

to her audience,

to her fans.

You are none

of these things;

you can never be.

When I meet her, I have no idea

who she is; just the gorgeous

crimson-curled girl

washing her clothes

at the lavanderia,

attentively watching

Spanish language telenovelas,

brow furrowed

as she tries making sense

of the endless melodrama.

I had never heard

of Dallas Wagstaff.

Second.

Never ask for sex.

It's her job, & no one  enjoys

bringing their work home.

Instead, be patient;

she will come to you

upon her own whims,

full of desire & lust & magick,

& she will mount you

like a wide-winged dragon,

& soon enough

you will find

yourselves intertwined

& writhing like a gordian

ouroboros.

She seems surprised

when I approach her,

or annoyed, thinking

I was little more

than another

overzealous fan

presuming

she was forever

on the prowl

for new lovers,

her brow

only digging deeper.

"You seem a bit confused,"

I chide her, "I'd be happy

to translate, happy to open

the world to you. My mother

always said two tongues

are better than one."

Third.

Abolish jealousy.

It serves no good

to anyone's heart,

as thoughts of late

nights & long

weekends away,

as neverending visions

of countless men & women

having their way

will only eat at you,

a restless, rabid raccoon

perpetually gnawing

at your guts

& regurgitating

indigestible bile.

"Te extraño," I say

as I transcribe the words

onto her bare back

with a sumi brush

dipped in jagua henna.

"Te extraño," she repeats,

"What does that mean?"

"It means I miss you,"

I reply as I cap the "n"

with a tilde.

I pull back

to get a better look

at my handiwork,

her vocabularium.

These words will fade,

but she will always see

their shadows.

She turns her head

to catch me

from  the corner of her left eye.

"¿Me extraña," she asks, coyly,

"aveces?"

"Me extrañas," I correct,"Bueno,

siempre y nunca, amor."

Finally.

Accept that you will lose

her. Nothing lasts,

nothing is permanent,

every story ends.

One day, Dallas will get home

from Houston after a weeklong

series of shoots with nary a call,

nary a text, & all

this incommunicado

will drive you mad,

& you will attack

in a jealous rage.

You will insist

she be only yours.

You will demand

she fuck you,

immediately, to prove her love.

& she will realize

that you, too,

are incapable

of loving her

the way she needs

to be loved.

She won't even unpack

her bags, she will call

a friend to get her & she will leave

you with apologies pouring forth

from your lips

like oxidized wine, nothing

but vinegar in her ears;

the damage already done.

I never

did get to know Dallas,

only ever the girl

she hid beneath. "Why

do you like painting

on my body like this?"

asks the next one

I cannot love.

She thinks

it odd,

peculiar,

kinky.

"I love words," I lie,

"the way they feel

when they are drawn out,

when I can witness

their permanency & impermanence

at once."

"Are we permanent?" She asks,

wriggling under the tickle of the sumi brush.

"Of course," I say, smiling

at her extended eye.

I finish the thought in my mind:

as permanent as these words

inscribed on the wrong skin

in jagua henna.