It is a truth universally acknowledged, though seldom discussed, that it is difficult to make small talk with someone whose face you have grown accustomed to masturbating to. Less acknowledged, though equally worthy of discussion, is that this truth is doubly felt if the face belongs to someone you are meeting for the first time. Certain subtleties crucial to a successful introductory chat – such as forming words, listening, or the general ability to communicate – are all but impossible to convey when your speaking partner is a porn star. That is, when your speaking partner is the star of a series of tasteful art-pornos on regular rotation in the streaming queue of your spank bank. Even I, a person whose greatest talents lie in the art of conversation (assuming we don’t consider ‘spending money’ or ‘getting high’ traditional talents), found this sort of situation almost too difficult to bear. There I was, spectacularly vomiting word salads all over a face I had last seen dripping with someone’s load, and I was unable to express anything beyond a flustered titter or two. Contrary to what one might wish for in the heat of the moment, suddenly bumping into one of your screen crushes in the flesh is not much of a fun, sexy time. It also didn’t help that he was French, had a fastidiously trimmed moustache, and was unbelievably attractive. Any one of these character traits are fine qualities to have, but a person who wields all three is dangerous. This lethal combo had reduced me to a wad of horny, gooey putty in his beautifully manicured Parisian hands. Still, I persisted, and eventually persevered, in making something resembling a conversation. At least I must have, for my next memory is of saying goodbye. “Hope to see you around,” he said, a word of parting innocent enough were it not for his hand resting upon my hip, a hair’s breadth away from stroking my ass. I zeroed in on the centre of his moustache, hoping a laser-focused gaze at those auburn bristles would prevent me from melting to the floor. Thinking back to it, I was, of course, hot and bothered, but not just erotically. Something about this exchange perturbed me at a level far beyond the surface layer of social anxiety of meeting a jerk-off fantasy and flubbing it. There was a sense of guilt mucking around down there; it seemed unfair that I had an intimate history with this person before I had even met him, and that I projected this history onto him and in doing so objectified him, preventing me from behaving like a real person. Maybe I was being hard on myself – I mean how often do you expect to bump into a person you’ve gotten used to seeing as a ghost offering semen-related services from the spirit world in a haunted attic? Surely just completing an interaction with that sort of baggage is an accomplishment in itself? Meeting him on these terms…