'Mr Sex': He's been with a Porn Star, you know

When it comes to squiring women about town, I count myself lucky; when it comes to the list of fantasy female professions, I've ticked off a lot of boxes. I've dated a French air stewardess (only dated, unfortunately - she was gorgeous), I've had a fling with a (cliche alert) naughty nurse (she wouldn't let me pretend that I had Ebola and she only had five minutes to wank it out of me), I dated a 19 year-old Czech lap-dancer (could have gone somewhere, but I was still wrapped up in my ex - excuse me while I go off and bash my face against a wall for five minutes), and I copped off my school lust object long after the event.

But if you want to talk about the big brass ring of fantasy knock-offs for a man - the apex of the female profession pyramid, if you will - you're talking about porn stars. And yes, I've done that too. Well, sort of. Allow me to explain...

I first met Kelly (and yes, that’s her real name: I've written about her before and she doesn’t give a fuck) when I was out with a female friend at a theatre in London. I recognised her from a TV series we were both working on, but separately. I would have said hello, but I was too busy trying to impress said mate with my knowledge of early 80s Feminist theatre. More importantly, I thought that the bloke she was out with - a famous comedian - was an absolute bell-end, and I couldn’t bring myself to talk to him.

London media being the incestuous sniff-round-the-dogs-arsehole that it is, it was only a matter of time before I saw her again, this time at a dinner party thrown after the shooting of the TV series. She was a Nordic blonde with the kind of breathy Transatlantic voice that made sex phoneline owners buy another mansion, in a skirt that was shorter than the belt-buckle, with jubblies like two Spacehoppers trapped in a cupboard.

“I love seeing you on the TV. Can I kiss you?” she said.

“Yeah, go on then” I said, expecting the usual patronising peck on the top of the head. One full-on snog later with tongues later, while everyone else at the table stared on, one of the weirdest relationships I’ve ever had begun.

I knew what she did (even though I hadn't seen her doing it), and I wasn't arsed in the slightest. Having worked in porn for a considerable chunk of my career and spending a lot of time hanging about in dressing rooms smoking fags and talking shit with Page 3 models in and out of their underwear, I wasn’t arsed in the slightest about who she was or what she did. I was already of the opinion that they would have made the perfect girlfriends (attractive, independent, open-minded about sex, evil senses of humour), were it not for the ‘shagging-other-blokes-for-some-other-blokes-to-wank-over’ bit. If I hadn't been happily coupled up at the time, I would have chanced my arm with a few of them - but then again, being happily coupled up was probably the reason why they let me share a dressing room with them in the first place.

With Kelly, however, I was single, unattached, and phenomenally, completely, gargantuanly up for it. After the dinner-table snog, we went to one of her private Soho clubs, but it was her time of the month and she had to be on a train first thing in the morning, She promised she'd call when she got back. I pretended to believe her, and that was that.

A few days later, she called me. And after a very long chat, she laid it right on the line, on a plate, with a complimentary side-order of chips. She wanted a relationship with me. When I picked myself up off the floor, the excuses came thick and fast; I was still carrying an immolated warehouse of torches for my ex. I wanted kids, but she was sterilised. I was thinking of moving out of London. We lived on the other side of a very big and faffy city miles away from each other. I was too skint to go out.

As you may have surmised, this was all bollocks. The fact was, I was intimidated rigid by her track record. Not only was she acquainted on a work basis with men who were hung like blue whales, she’d also been out with very successful writers and rubbish but successful comedians. What the fuck did she see in me? What was the catch?

We started going out for drinks, but the damage was done; we were now mates, with all the usual Frienditis bullshit. (I was very impressed by the way she presented me with her latest obligatory STD result to prove that she had a clean bill of health on the second date, though). One night, I was round her flat, she told me she wanted to show me a video. I was expecting some full-on grot she’d been in. Instead, it was a home-made video of her, as a 17 year-old, with her baby daughter. Looking back now, I can't believe I couldn't see all these enormous flashing green lights, but I could see what I was doing; I was desperate to prove to her that there was at least one heterosexual male in the would who wouldn't hump her and dump her.

Of course, this didn’t stop me telling all me mates about this porn star I was knocking about with. To some of them, I had automatically transformed from that poor bastard they know who could do with a girlfriend to Grade One Alpha-Male Cock-Diesel Panther-Man. Some of my mates – who I expected better of, to be honest - were absolutely awestruck. “YOU DA FUCKING MAN!” one of them texted to me when I told him I couldn’t come out because I was at me Porn Mate’s house. I didn’t have the heart to tell him we were only sipping cocoa and reading her enormous collection of Judge Dredd books. And I must be one of the few people in the world who, after telling a mate about a girl he was just starting to date, has been asked “Do you want to come back to mine and see her getting spit-roasted by two black lads on the DVD?”

By this time, I decided to choose a life over a career by going back to Nottingham. The night before I left, she was having a party, and I was invited, on a promise to be seen off in style. Alas, by 3am I had passed out on her bed, and came round to find her shagging someone else right next to me. Not only was this a painfully symbolic ending to my time in London, but it was also the nearest I’ve come to a threesome. I didn’t know whether to laugh, cry or grab his arse just to freak him out. It told me that I was probably right to throw up every defence possible in order to stop myself from getting involved only to get hurt later, and the next morning I walked out of her life. Or so I thought.

Two really weird things happened when I moved away. The first one was when she still stayed in touch, telling me I was charismatic, intelligent and sexy, and she loved the way I rolled a fag and looked vulnerable. The second was when I saw her on another documentary, in a foreign hotel room after filming a watersports video, looking very upset and a million miles from home, and I wanted to jump into the screen, shove her into a shower, and hug her until she cheered up. Shit.

The next time we met, something did happen. I went round her house, she took me shoes and socks off, cut me toenails, and gave me a soapy tit-wank. I’d love to say that it was a mind-blowing experience where every fantasy I’ve harboured since the age of 13 was fulfilled, but to my mind she’d ceased to be a Porn Star a long time ago. She was now Kelly, a mate with the softest lips I’ve ever kissed in my life, who I always wanted to try it on with but it never quite happened due to my own stupidity, and it was very intimate and affectionate. And then we got dressed and went out to the pub.

Nothing like that has happened since, and I can’t see it happening again. The last time I saw her in person was a while back, when I was stranded in London pissed out of my skull at 3am with nowhere else to stay, and she was the only person I could think to call at such a late hour - and she took me in, prepared the futon, and took my contact lenses out. Now that's proper intimacy.

So there we go. My Porn Star experience. Really, I should be kicking myself that I didn't take the opportunity to tick off every box in the Lad Fantasy department - but then again, if I'd seen her as a human being rather than an unattainable goal/bonus point in the first place, I wouldn't be wondering What If, right kids?