Again, I don’t answer; it’s not required. He wouldn’t listen. I wish he’d just pull himself together and find something—something!—to do. He doesn’t have to leave, just get out from under my feet. Our parents split when we were young, and as we were already at boarding school, I suppose we’ve never really felt like we had a family home. We never lived with our parents. Just spent alternate holidays with them.
‘Do you ever feel like running away?’
His question pulls me from my musing. It isn’t the first time he’s asked, but I try to keep the notion of how ridiculous I find the question to myself.
‘I like my life. I like my job, and I like my house. Why would I want to leave?’
‘Becauselikeisn’t enough. Because love and passion is—’
‘Constructs of society. What’s wrong with just being okay? Why do we all have to strive for magnificence? Why can’t we just settle for good enough?’
Max snorts derisively. ‘That’s a crock, and you know it. You only settle for mediocre outside of your art.’
His words sting, but he’s right. My job might be extraordinary, but my life is pretty dull. And that’s how I like it. My work is my art. There’s a beauty in erotica because that’s what I sell—seduction, sensuality, and romance. Not sex. Not really. I studied fine art at university and became enamoured with the human form. I drew, painted, and critiqued the body. Became a little obsessed, I suppose. I sort of fell into pornography, but not like the guilty husband who insists he was looking for a new nanny yet somehowstumbledonto a spanking site.
I saw a gap in the market and began selling stylised erotic stills. All very innocent; the art in the dip of a spine, the beauty in the contouring of a firm bicep. And then a client asked for a tasteful penis pic—yes, there are such things. As far as I’m concerned, there’s beauty in everything. I’ll admit, I was a little shocked, and more so when I discovered how much she was willing to pay. She even supplied the posing penis by way of her husband’s hard on.
I suppose my business concept just spiralled from there. Now I spend my days filming beautiful people enjoying their own bodies and the bodies of others. But it’s not all art house fucking. I do spend a lot of time editing, and nannying the website, promotion, and all kinds of horrid admin. Thankfully, I still have my best friend, Paisley, to help some days. Since marrying, she’s taken on a few new freelance makeup artist gigs, though she still makes time to come and help on set. I thought being newly married might complicate matters—men can be such territorial creatures—but I’m happy to report that isnotthe case with her husband, Keir.
I fill the kettle, flick the switch, then turn back to Max, leaning back against the kitchen countertop.
He really is turning into a carbon copy of our father, at least physically. He has the same chestnut hair and brooding expression.Byron-esque, my mother once said. Though I don’t think either my father or Max lean towards Byron’s partiality for bum sex, not that I would care if they did. I sigh quietly. I’ve made no secret of my business, and in turn, my family have made no secret of their abhorrence and disgust. My aunt Camilla might be a fan, but I think she’s the only one. The only one who admits it, at least.
I’m sure my mother would prefer Max to sleep on Genghis Khan’s sofa rather than stay with me. She probably thinks I’ll corrupt him—have him starring in one of my skin flicks. If only they knew how it’s the opposite—how he harasses me, trying to persuade me to let him “have a go”.
He doesn’t understand. He’s just an oversexed, overgrown boy. I don’t think he believes that being an adult actor is hard work. Hard to remain focused over long days. Hard to fake enthusiasm some days. Hard to stay hard!
But I don’t often talk of my work. And our family is dealing with my career choice as they do with all things: by pretending it’s not an actual thing. Brush it all under the antique carpet and make-believe that everything is fine. Stiff upper lips, not penises. Lie back and think of England. Tradition and heritage over smut.
‘Something will turn up,’ I tell Max, tearing myself away from my thoughts again.
‘Well, in the meantime, I’m going away.’
‘Again?’ He must have more frequent flier points than the Kardashians combined. ‘I mean, so soon?’ I amend, taking in his glare.
‘Yeah, Josh’s parents have a place in Goa. We’re going to hang out and meditate.’
Self-medicate, more like. ‘Look, Max, you’ll find the thing that sparks your interest—something you can see yourself doing. A thing you’ll love.’
‘Not like you did,’ he answers morosely, still looking out at the dark, wet night. ‘You’ve found a passion.’
Lost it more like. Who can’t bloody orgasm? If I can’t find it soon, I’ll probably end up having a stress-related heart attack. And who will be to blame then? Flynn bloody Phillips, that’s who.
I reach for the cannister of tea to avoid Max reading my expression. I’m told I wear my emotions on my face, and no one wants to question my thoughts right now. Because Flynn Phillips has stolen my orgasm, and I need to come up with a plan to make him give it back.
