Life has a cruel sense of humor. One minute you think you're the main character; the next, you realize you might just be the setup for someone else's punchline.
I met the girl who would define my entire heart when I was seventeen. A junior at Westlake High, full of vague ambitions and feelings too large to contain.
Lana Blake.
Her name alone felt like something sacred. Golden hair that seemed to glow even under fluorescent classroom lights, a laugh that could quiet an entire hallway, and eyes that saw past every wall I tried to put up. For two perfect years we were glued together—first love, first clumsy kisses, first nights when the rest of the world disappeared.
"Fuck me harder! Oh god—yes, right there!"
I fumble with the remote and lower the volume a notch. On the television, Lana—known professionally as Lana Lust—is bent backward over a muscled frame, face locked in exaggerated bliss as she begs for more. It still feels like watching a stranger wear my girlfriend's skin.
But I'm jumping ahead.
After high school graduation, I received an acceptance letter from my dream college several states away—the escape route my parents had quietly bled money to provide. Lana, meanwhile, landed a modeling contract. Not runway or editorial. The kind that made my stomach knot even at eighteen.
"We could do long-distance," she offered, though her voice already carried the weight of goodbye.
"I don't want us hating each other by the end," I replied, trying to sound wise while secretly terrified she'd outgrow me. "Maybe after I graduate…"
"Oh my GOD! I'm cumming—I'm cumming!"
My hand moves faster without conscious permission as on-screen Lana convulses through what is unmistakably a genuine climax. I've felt her real orgasms. I know the difference. That knowledge cuts deeper than anything.
Part of me—some childish, stubborn part—had hoped she would wait. Not demand fidelity, just… stay emotionally on hold until I came back. I pictured returning at twenty-one or twenty-two to find her still in our hometown, maybe cutting hair at the local salon or taking night classes. We'd fall right back into place, a little more grown-up but still unmistakably us.
Instead, the connection faded. Texts slowed, likes on social media stopped, then silence. I tried dating other women—smart, driven, perfectly reasonable on paper. None of them were Lana.
Then came the cosmic sucker punch. Four years of grinding through computer science courses, only to graduate directly into an industry being quietly replaced by the very technology I'd been trained to build. AI didn't just threaten jobs; it erased entire career paths overnight. The irony tasted like rust in my mouth.
"Take it all, baby! Tell me how bad you want this cock!"
"I want it so fucking bad—please don't stop—harder!"
I tighten my grip, eyes locked on Lana's latest release. Her co-star has her folded over an ugly velvet couch, her expression one I used to think belonged only to me.
Three months of applications that went nowhere later, I loaded my belongings into a beat-up sedan and drove home to my parents' spare bedroom. Twenty-three, drowning in student loans, and professionally obsolete. The golden boy returns—not triumphant, just tired.
Then, on a random Tuesday afternoon in the cereal aisle at Kroger, the universe decided to deal me another card.
"Adam? Oh my god—Adam!"
There she stood. Lana Blake. Somehow even more radiant than memory had allowed. Hair now cut to just past her shoulders, wearing plain jeans and a soft sweater that still couldn't disguise the body that had made her internet-famous.
"Holy shit," I breathed, clutching a box of off-brand cereal like a lifeline. "Lana."
She launched herself at me with enough momentum to nearly knock both of us into a tower of toaster pastries. She smelled like vanilla and home and something that hit me harder than any drug.
"You're back! When did you get here? Are you staying?" The words spilled out between laughter and near-tears.
"Yeah… tech kind of ate itself. AI happened." I tried to shrug it off like returning to my childhood bedroom at twenty-three was a deliberate life choice.
The memory of what came next overlays with the scene still playing on the television, her moans filling the room as my hand keeps its rhythm.
"I missed you every single day," she'd confessed right there between Frosted Flakes and steel-cut oats. Tears shimmered in her eyes. "I tried dating. I really tried. But no one was ever you, Adam. No one."
She'd grabbed both my hands, ignoring the curious stares. "Please tell me you're not with anyone. Please tell me I'm not too late."
"I'm single," I said, suddenly hyper-aware of my faded t-shirt and discount groceries.
"Then take me back," she whispered, voice trembling. "I know it's sudden and insane and we've both changed, but I never stopped loving you. I tried—I swear I tried—but you're still the only one."
My chest felt like it was caving in and expanding at the same time. My high-school dream girl—the one who slipped away—was standing in a grocery store begging for a second chance. It felt like the universe had finally thrown me a rope instead of another anvil.
"Yes," I said instantly. "Yes, of course."
Relief flooded her face, followed immediately by something more guarded.
"There's… something you need to know first," she said, tugging me toward the quieter baking aisle. "I'm not modeling the way I said back then."
"Yes! Yes! Fuck me like you own me!"
"I do adult films now," she finished in a hushed rush. "I'm actually pretty successful at it." Her gaze searched mine, braced for rejection.
I stood there, brain short-circuiting. Porn. My Lana was a porn star.
"Adam?" Her voice cracked. Tears gathered at the edges of her lashes. "Please say something."
"Fill me up—I want to feel you explode inside!"
"Please," she whispered, fingers tightening on my arm. "I know this is a lot. I know it's strange. But I'm still me underneath all of it. The same girl who loved you more than anything." A single tear slipped free, carving a dark line through her mascara. "I just want one more chance. That's all I'm asking."
How do you turn away from the only person who ever made the world feel safe? From eyes that still remembered every version of you? You don't. You can't.
"Okay," I heard myself say. "Let's try."
The smile that broke across her face was brighter than anything the fluorescent lights could manage. She crashed into me again, arms locked around my neck, face pressed to my chest.
"Thank you," she breathed into my shirt. "I swear you won't regret this."
That was six months ago.
Now we live together in her cozy two-bedroom house on the edge of town—the same town I once couldn't wait to leave. These days it feels like exactly the right place to land.
On-screen, Lana's co-star finishes with a groan as she cries out for him to fill her. The sight tips me over the edge. My body locks up, pleasure crashing through me in sharp, guilty waves. I bite back a curse and reach for the tissues as the familiar shame creeps in behind the high.
The oven timer screeches.
"Shit—!" I lurch to my feet, yank my sweatpants up, and sprint to the kitchen. The lasagna—Lana's favorite—cannot burn. Not tonight.
I pull the golden dish from the oven just in time and set it aside to rest. Thirty minutes until she's home. Just enough time to shower away the evidence and set the table properly.
This life still doesn't feel entirely real. When we first moved in together I'd insisted I'd find work immediately—even stocking shelves if I had to. Lana had other plans.
"Adam," she'd asked one night, curled against me in the dark, "did you ever actually enjoy coding?"
"I liked what it promised," I admitted. "Security. A future."
She lifted her head, eyes serious. "What if you didn't need to chase that anymore? What if you could just… breathe for a while?"
A week later my entire student loan balance—$96,000—vanished like it had never existed.
"Think of it as investing in us," she'd said, kissing my protests silent.
So here I am: twenty-four, essentially a house husband, cooking from online recipes, keeping the house tidy, handling errands so Lana can focus on shoots. I even write a little fanfiction on the side; she's my favorite (and only) reader.
The arrangement makes sense on paper. She earns in one scene what I might make in months at entry-level retail. Still, some mornings when she kisses me goodbye and heads to set, the knowledge of what she'll be doing—and with whom—lands like a quiet bruise.
I step into the shower, letting scalding water rinse away the physical traces of my solitary afternoon. That's the secret I carry: when she's gone, I watch her old scenes. I get off to footage of my girlfriend being taken by strangers.
"Please don't watch them," she'd pleaded early on. "It'll only hurt you. That version isn't me—it's just a job."
I'd promised I wouldn't.
But promises break under curiosity.
One lonely night I typed "Lana Lust" into a search bar. Hundreds of thumbnails stared back. I clicked the first one that looked familiar. The jealousy was immediate and violent.
Yet somewhere between nausea and heartbreak, arousal crept in. Each video became less painful, more intoxicating. Disgust slowly twisted into something darker, something I still can't name.
These days I seek out her roughest scenes—the ones with multiple partners, the ones where she's overwhelmed and vocal. Sometimes I watch her with other women, memorizing the way their hands move over her skin.
It's messed up. I know.
But I've stopped pretending I can quit.
When the high fades, the shame rushes back in. Always does.
I shut off the water, towel dry quickly, and hear the front door open.
"Adam? I got home early!"
I wrap the towel tighter around my waist and step out into the hallway.
There she is—jeans, oversized sweater, hair in a loose ponytail, holding a small shopping bag. No makeup, no performance. Just Lana.
Her face lights up like I'm the best thing she's seen all day. She crosses the room in three strides and throws herself against me, arms tight, lips brushing my damp neck.
"I missed you," she murmurs, pressing soft kisses along my collarbone. The kiss that follows is gentle, almost shy—nothing like the cries still echoing in my head from the television.
She pulls back slightly, nose wrinkling as she inhales. "You smell so clean." Her voice holds something like awe.
I laugh quietly as she keeps sniffing, nosing along my shoulder like she's trying to memorize the scent.
Then her head snaps up, eyes huge and sparkling.
"Did you make lasagna?"
I grin at the pure, childlike excitement in her voice. "Yeah."
She lets out a delighted squeal and bolts for the kitchen, leaving me standing there in my towel.
By the time I catch up she's hovering over the dish, hands clasped under her chin like she's witnessing a miracle.
"It looks perfect," she whispers, and I swear her eyes are glistening.
"Go sit," I tell her, nudging her gently toward the dining table. "I'll plate it."
She turns, lower lip trembling just a little.
"Adam," she says, voice thick, "I love you so much."
I look at her—really look—and feel the truth settle deep in my bones.
"I love you too, Lana," I say quietly. "More than anything."