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" It&amp;#039;s a foggy, grey afternoon in June \u2014 the one month out of the year that you can&amp;#039;t count on sunshine in LA. My fianc\u00E9 Robbie and I are hanging out in his room before meeting his mom and stepdad for dinner. Robbie&amp;#039;s convinced me that it&amp;#039;s a good idea to watch an episode of Webdreams, season one. It makes sense to see what he&amp;#039;s actually going to be filming rather than imagine it, is the thinking. It&amp;#039;s been about a week since he said yes to the job offer \u2014 &amp;quot;Yes, I will film porn stars in all manner of crude encounters. No, I won&amp;#039;t pop a boner.&amp;quot; I&amp;#039;m still adjusting. And by adjusting, I mean stifling the discomfort that emerges every time the new job is mentioned. I can&amp;#039;t even think about what this anxiety is, why it exists; all I can do is stuff it down. Swallow hard. I&amp;#039;d prefer not to think or talk about it. But the consensus so far is that people think a job filming porn stars is something to talk about. Basically, the topic comes up a lot. And each time, I perfect my poker face: a look of bemused disinterest. A look, come to think of it, perfected by porn stars. So it is that Robbie and I are lying next to each other \u2014 all lanky, six-feet-two inches of him alongside the wee five-feet-two of me. We watch a hot brunette get busy with a busty blonde on his fifteen-inch laptop. There&amp;#039;s a bright pink dildo involved. The blonde reclines on a bed with her double d&amp;#039;s splayed apart \u2014 as much as silicon splays, that is \u2014 and moans. They&amp;#039;ve been at it for a while (about twelve decades, in my estimation) and the blonde is having trouble cumming, or rather squirting \u2014 which I&amp;#039;ve just learned is an unfortunate colloquialism that evokes mustard bottles but actually means &amp;quot;female ejaculation.&amp;quot; Alternatively, Robbie tells me, it&amp;#039;s sometimes called gushing \u2014 a word that, like moist and panties, also makes me want to wretch bile. The brunette cheers the blonde on in a sexy-meets-soccer-coach voice: &amp;quot;Yeah, that&amp;#039;s it! Cum for me, baby!!&amp;quot; And a very long two minutes later, she does, like a stream emerging from a wide-mouthed cherub on a Venetian fountain, or a fire hose turned on a blazing building, or the gas pumps spraying in Zoolander. You get the point. I shift uncomfortably, uncrossing and recrossing my legs. &amp;quot;No way that&amp;#039;s real,&amp;quot; I state unequivocally, glancing over at Robbie to gauge his level of interest. His blue-grey eyes stare straight ahead. The deep crow&amp;#039;s feet that belie his twenty-seven years of age are fixed in a forced, neutral expression. &amp;quot;I&amp;#039;ve heard it is...&amp;quot; he says. &amp;quot;Nah, she has a water balloon up there. See, this is what I mean about my suspension of disbelief, it always kills the mood for me.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;Maybe watching this wasn&amp;#039;t the best idea.&amp;quot; He hits Pause on the show, which is now following another set of characters \u2014 a woman and her husband, who stars in gay porn. But forget that for a minute, I still have my mind on the dog-and-pony show I&amp;#039;ve just seen performed. How have I managed to live nearly thirty years of my life and never hear of this? And why, again, is it coming up (or, yikes, squirting out!) now? Just yesterday we sat on the lawn at Robbie&amp;#039;s film school and listened to David Lynch and Sean Connery proffer up wisdom to the graduating class of aspiring filmmakers. They didn&amp;#039;t mention that the bang bus was about to arrive with gainful employment. No, Sean Connery wore a kilt in the pomp and circumstance (much to the titillation of many a proud mother). He spoke of bright futures. And to be fair, landing a job filming a network-level reality TV show right out of the gates is no small thing. Even if it is a job that requires Robbie to trail porn stars in their daily lives \u2014 noshing low-cal lunches, hoofing it down to the tanning salon, and yes, filming all number of sex acts. And so here we are, discussing whether or not squirting \u2014 curse the gerund \u2014 is real. (Eventually I&amp;#039;ll realize that it is sort of like debating whether Pamela Anderson has had a boob job. Anyway, live and learn.) &amp;quot;So, you&amp;#039;ve obviously seen this before,&amp;quot; I say, with the same not so subtly suspicious tone Oprah used when she interviewed Jenna Jameson. &amp;quot;Yeah,&amp;quot; he says. &amp;quot;Lots of it?&amp;quot; I push, and quickly regret my Inquisition-style approach. &amp;quot;Nah.&amp;quot; I fill in the silence, softening my tone to try to sound more curious and interested instead of judgmental: &amp;quot;So... you think it&amp;#039;s sexy?&amp;quot; &amp;quot;Um,&amp;quot; he says, &amp;quot;I guess having a visual of a girl&amp;#039;s orgasm is pretty hot.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;Right, I can sort of see that,&amp;quot; I say, wondering why every time I try to sound open and accepting it comes out like I&amp;#039;d been sucking back helium. &amp;quot;Because you guys usually just have moans and facial expressions to go on.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;Right.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;And so getting splashed in the face with a bucket of pee is rewarding, in that sense.&amp;quot; There, I said it. I couldn&amp;#039;t help myself. &amp;quot;It&amp;#039;s not pee!&amp;quot; &amp;quot;Uh huh, so you say.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;It&amp;#039;s really not pee.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;Right, prove it then!&amp;quot; I mean to say this playfully, but it comes out sounding defensive. I then realize he&amp;#039;ll actually have plenty of opportunities to provide evidence. Excerpted from Prude: Lessons I Learned When My Fianc\u00E9 Filmed Porn by Emily Southwood. Available from Seal Press, a member of the Perseus Books Group. Copyright 2013. Author photo \u00A9 Robert Vroom "^^<http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#string>
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