is name isn’t important. His bio simply said: Actor / New Zealand.

When we matched, I felt like I had won something. He was the perfect hybrid of Collin Ferrell and Ashton Kutcher. Dark, feathery hair. A sharp yet boyish chin. And a body I yearned to climb like a jungle gym.

His acting credits ranged from independent tragedies to horror movies to one of the most recognizable young adult shows on television. I immediately streamed the show, skipped to his storyline, and began to fantasize. The confidence, the suave, the sharp tongue. I got lost in the role of playing the girl he was courting.

Our date was coffee and a joint. Collin Kutcher rocked the “rolled out of bed” look. I was dressed brightly — pea-cocking — to offset my dark humor. It worked wonderfully. We chatted about how he was “born again” and how I practiced witchcraft.

Our date lasted a few hours and every time I made him laugh, he looked at me in awe. Images from his acting flashed across my mind. His muscles, his fuck-me eyes, the way the TV temptresses reacted to it all. I felt like I was in a teen drama and didn’t want it to end.

After a week and a handful of useless text messages between us, I had little to no faith that I was going to partake in this LA rite of passage that I devised — where I bang an actor my first year living in LA. And not just any actor — an actor who was in his grind — someone that LA had already chewed up, spat out and is now rising.

And then it happened. One night he replied to a text I sent earlier that day. It only took a few messages to go from “I’m free this week.” to “You should be in my bed right now…”

His one-bedroom Silver Lake Apartment was modest, yet alluring. When it came to that body — everything felt better than it looked. For being so dominant, his grasp was sensitive. He was in awe of my tattoos and sucked on my naval piercing. Whatever butterflies I had were rapidly transforming into sexual monsters. I was ready to play the part I had seen on screen.

And the sex was thrilling … at first.

He went down on me for a total of ten minutes and reached for the condom too soon. Every position he put me in became arrhythmic. I began to fantasize about his character on TV — only to be interrupted by Collin Kutcher’s real-life — yet somehow theatrical — air gasping sex noises.

It was only when I had both my legs draped over his shoulders that I realized just how ordinary everything was. So what if he was on TV? His dick didn’t feel any different…

…except for when he came.

The lower half of his body spasmed so dramatically I thought he must be faking his orgasm. He jerked his body like a flopping fish in ecstasy and I couldn’t help but let a giggle escape as I came to a realization: I’m glad I didn’t blow him or I would have gotten kicked in the face.

The next morning we had sex again. For me, this time was for research. I climbed on top. I decided that if his second orgasm wasn’t as theatrical, the first must have been faked. Or performed.

But lo and behold, he proceeded to have his second fish, floppin’ orgasm and I …proceeded to have none.

I should have taken control of my fate. I should have made myself come and made him watch. I shouldn’t have expected him to be like the person I saw on TV, even if he made me feel — fleetingly — like the teen drama temptress I wanted to be.

Looking back now, my thoughts were predicated on naiveté, on all the ways he could validate me. Perhaps that’s why he felt he needed to put on a show. Because that’s what he believes girls expected of him.

But still I wonder—do the other girls believe him? Or am I just the only one who thinks — if not directed … he’s a shitty actor?